


Glitch

by simplestardust



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, all the usual Grantaire warnings, also copious self-indulgent references to canon, an enormous pile of minor background relationships, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplestardust/pseuds/simplestardust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was one person, just one, who would be a glitch in the system, of course it would be Éponine Thénardier. Of fucking course.</p><p>Soulbonding was a fact of life. You met your soulmate, and that was it, you were soulbonded and you got your tattoo. Or that's what Éponine had always thought, until she soulbonded with Marius and he didn't soulbond with her.</p><p>Grantaire would rather just pretend he'd never soulbonded with anyone in the first place. Especially not with the idealist who was leading a campaign against soulbonding laws and refused to look at his own soulmate tattoo in protest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitch

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [Danny](http://bottomliamaf.tumblr.com/) and [Emma](http://sunlightinoureyes.tumblr.com/), thank you guys, we finally made it!  
> Dedicated to [Hannah](http://oopsyxdaisies.tumblr.com/) for being this fic's cheerleader since its inception and listening to my writer's woes about world-building that I couldn't fit into the word count.

If there was one person, just one, who would be a glitch in the system, of course it would be Éponine Thénardier. Of fucking course. Because when life gave you lemons, try as you may to make lemonade, it would just keep piling those lemons on you. Everyone was destined from birth to be marked with the names of their soulmate, marked to find love. Éponine should’ve known that what she was destined for could never be so kind. That was if she was even destined for anything at all, which it didn’t seem like she was anymore.

-

“Every person has one perfect partner. We call this person your ‘soulmate’. You and your soulmate are destined to be together-”

“Yawn!”

“Shut up, Montparnasse,” Éponine said scathingly, balling up a piece of paper and tossing it at him.

Éponine, aged fourteen, loved Philosophy and Ethics class. Well, as much as she could enjoy anything that required her to be at school. Really, it wasn’t the class she enjoyed. She hated the ‘meaning of life’ discussions - which was mostly what the class was, honestly. Okay, she hated Philosophy and Ethics as much as she hated any other class. Yet she loved learning about soulmates.

Every time the topic came up, Éponine soaked up every piece of information she could. When they were assessed on it, it was the only time Éponine had ever known what it was like to be a swot. Éponine enjoyed the confusion it caused her teacher, who became stupidly excited to have inspired her to study, before the next topic came along and Éponine was failing again. Gavroche had even kicked her the first time she’d come home with an ‘A’. Éponine almost enjoyed watching people’s responses to it all as much she enjoyed soulmates. Almost.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Thénardier,” Madame Dubois said, smiling bemusedly at Éponine.

Éponine smirked at Montparnasse, who rolled his eyes and tossed the paper ball right back at her. The idiot was two years older than the rest of them because he never did any work, so he kept getting held back at school. It seemed his life’s mission was to piss Éponine off. She turned her attention to her teacher, pretending not to notice the paper hitting her shoulder.

“As I was saying,” continued Madame Dubois. “You and your soulmate are a perfect match. However, this connection only manifests itself when the two of you soulbond. This occurs when you see them for the first time. You will know it has happened by your soulmate’s name appearing on your wrist, like a tattoo, and you will immediately feel a burning sensation where it appears.”

Éponine already knew all this, but she listened enthusiastically anyway. She’d often fantasised about the day she’d meet her soulmate, and what he’d be like; filling her days imagining what he might be doing.

“As you know, your soulbond cannot occur before both of you have turned sixteen. Are there any questions at this point? Yes, Mademoiselle Thénardier?”

Éponine lowered her hand. “What if you’ve already met them before you turn sixteen?”

“Then their name will appear on your wrist the next time you see them after your birthday,” Madame Dubois said, smiling. “Yes, M Grantaire?”

Éponine turned in her chair, spotting the boy at the back with dark curly hair. He hadn’t spoken in class all year; Éponine hadn’t even really noticed his presence before.

“What if,” he began, voice quiet. His next words were so mumbled that Éponine couldn’t make them out.

“Speak up, M Grantaire.”

“What if your soulmate doesn’t like you?” Grantaire asked.

“That’s absurd,” Madame Dubois said, laughing.

“Whatever,” Montparnasse said, kicking his feet onto his desk. “It’s not like it matters. It’s just love.” He turned to smirk at Éponine, who flatly ignored him.

“It does matter,” Madame Dubois began, repeating the words she’d said many times before. “Every single one of you has a soulmate. While it is true that you may not all find your soulmate, you all absolutely have one, and they will be perfect for you.”

The rest of the class was spent studying various famous soulbonding occurences in history, particularly a French king who’d soulbonded with a peasant girl. This was Éponine’s favourite; she hoped she’d be lucky enough to have a king as a soulmate. Then she could live in a palace and leave her parents behind.

Éponine left class excited, dashing out the door to get home. She spotted a familiar head of blonde hair waiting at the front of the school.

“Hey, Euphrasie!” Éponine called, elbowing her when she caught up to her.

“You know I go by Cosette,” she said.

Éponine smirked as she and Cosette started walking home. Éponine well knew that calling the girl by her real name annoyed her. It was to do with her mum, or something; Éponine wasn’t really that interested. The only things she ever bothered to remember about Cosette were the things that riled her.

Éponine found it hard not to resent Cosette, though she refused to admit it was jealousy. She’d hated her even when she’d first met her. Cosette had been Éponine’s parents’ latest money-making tool: they’d realised they could claim child benefits if they fostered kids. Of course they then completely ignored the kids while they stayed with them, the kid changing month by month. Éponine managed to amuse herself by making the kid do whatever she wanted. They became her toys.

Not Cosette, though. The girl with the long golden hair and the big blue eyes. She was Cinderella, waiting for her fairy godmother to show her the way to the ball. Éponine realised that this made her the ugly step-sister, and she didn’t like it one bit. Not that Éponine considered herself ugly, nor did she kid herself into thinking she was beautiful. She liked the way she looked, though; attractive, but with rough edges to her. However, when Cosette was around, Éponine thought her rough edges overwhelmingly prominent. Éponine didn’t like to be made to feel small, so she dealt with it the best way she knew how: to make Cosette seem small instead.

“You seem happy today,” said Cosette.

Éponine hadn’t realised she was still smiling from the class. “Yeah, well, don’t go thinking it’s because of you,” she said.

Cosette shook her head. “Never even crossed my mind.”

Éponine usually would’ve taunted her now, or ignored her, depending on what mood she was in. But today she was still riding on that high, and didn’t much feel like keeping quiet.

“We were doing soulmates today,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Okay,” Cosette said.

“I reckon my soulmate’s gonna be a complete badass. You know, burly, hot, and knows how to break any lock.”

“Sure.”

“Like, _really_ hot.”

“Yeah.”

Éponine frowned; how could Cosette not be buzzing? Soulmates were the best. Éponine had spent many nights staying up late talking to Azelma about them. Why was Cosette not more interested?

“What about yours?” Éponine asked, just to get Cosette’s attention.

“I don’t know,” Cosette said, sighing.

“You’ve gotta have some clue.”

Cosette hesitated, looking at Éponine with suspicion. Éponine tried to smile in an encouraging way, not that she really knew how to do that.

“I don’t think I’ll ever find mine,” Cosette said, finally.

“Yeah, you probably won’t.”

Éponine didn’t believe that for a second. Cosette was Cinderella. Prince Charming would probably be her damn next-door neighbour. Éponine also didn’t believe that some people couldn’t find their soulmates. She’d heard about people who hadn’t, but they just mustn’t have been trying hard enough. What was the point in having soulmates if you couldn’t find them? But this was Cosette. Éponine would sooner toss herself off a bridge than comfort her.

Cosette started sighing in the way that Éponine hated in other people, all sort of forlorn and self-pitying. Cosette wasn’t going to be any fun today. Éponine decided to just ignore her for the rest of the walk home, instead daydreaming of her soulmate. He’d probably be rich enough to live in a house with two floors. Maybe he’d even have a car - one that he’d actually bought, rather than stolen. That’d be rich indeed. Although Éponine would want him to still be able to steal a car. Couldn’t go around having a soulmate that was a pussy.

-

Éponine had been right when she’d called Cosette ‘Cinderella’: she had gone and gotten herself adopted. At _fourteen years old._ Cosette had left the Thénardier’s as nearly as soon as she’d arrived, as they all did. She’d said something about keeping in touch, which Éponine had outright laughed at. But Cosette, perfect as ever, kept her word and a letter came through the post a few weeks later. Éponine had thought it was a joke when she’d first read it.

“Who the hell wants a grown-up kid?”

Apparently a man called M Valjean wanted a grown-up kid. Cosette explained that he’d been her foster father after she’d left the Thénardier’s, and he’d taken such a liking to her that he’d insisted on owning her, or something. Éponine was always a bit foggy on details that she didn’t care a jot about. She thought it was pretty fucking creepy, either way.

It was just another in a long list of reasons to hate Cosette. Cosette had been adopted by a man who actually wanted to be her dad, an all-round stand-up guy by Cosette’s account, who probably loved her already. Then she was probably going to meet her next-door neighbour Prince Charming soulmate and the three of them would prance off into their Disney-sponsored sunset. Whereas Éponine had real parents, and that was all she could really say in their favour.

Life at the Thénardier’s had always wildly fluctuated. There were times when her parents pulled off a successful job and they lived like kings and queens; spend, spend, spend. Yet more often, her parents tried to pull off big stunts that ended with either one or both of them in prison, always getting out quickly for some absurd reason or other. All Éponine knew was that her parents had a lot of information on people who had letters after their names. Then there were times, like after Cosette left, when no big jobs seemed to present themselves and they had to get by on petty theft and extortion.

These were the times that Éponine hated the most. Of course, part of this was due to that they had little money, so they were hungry most of the time. But Éponine, Gavroche and Azelma did alright by stealing food from the school canteen. What she really hated about it was that her dad believed it was time for her to ‘do her duty’. By this time, Gavroche and Azelma were old enough to have a ‘duty’ too, but that didn’t make it any better. Sure, there was less work for her to do, but she spent so much time worrying about her brother and sister that it felt like the jobs became twice as hard.

Éponine was taught how to break into a car the way other kids were taught how to ride a bike. She learned how to lie to the police as others learned to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.

The nature of these jobs was not something that Éponine liked to talk about. Not that she would’ve dreamt of telling anyone anyway. At best, it was just run-of-the-mill theft, which was something Éponine did for herself even at the best of times. How else would she get that skirt, the one that made Montparnasse gape like the idiot he was? He was her boyfriend now, and she liked making him speechless enough that he no longer irritated her.

Yet her dad’s idea of an easy theft job, and hers, were not the same. His involved more the stealing of actual money or things they could sell, and that was at best. At worst, well, Éponine refused to even think about it when it wasn’t happening at that very minute. You could make yourself downright depressed that way, she thought. Éponine could put up with doing a lot, and she did, but she didn’t like it when people got hurt.

She closed her eyes at night and forced herself to dream of a name on a wrist, of a future where she was free.

-

Grantaire was five years old when he first heard the word ‘soulmate’. He ignored it entirely and carried on drawing a picture of a firetruck.

Grantaire was seven years old when he first learnt what that word meant. He sat down and drew two oddly disfigured people holding hands, a girl and a boy, with single blue and green lines which were meant to represent the sky and grass. He labelled it ‘mE n MY sol mat’.

Grantaire was nine years old when he began to actually understand the concept. He idly drew a picture of himself with a girl, smiling lazily as he did it.

Grantaire was eleven years old when he found out about the tattoos, and when he started to take art classes. He sketched two hands, one masculine and one feminine, writing his own name on the second wrist, and a question mark on the first.

Grantaire was thirteen years old when he took out all those old pictures again, erasing all the girls he’d drawn and replacing them with boys.

Grantaire was fifteen years old when he had the confidence to sketch two masculine hands, both with complementary soulmate tattoos.

Grantaire was seventeen years old when he burned all the pictures.

-

“You will not fucking believe this,” Éponine said, seething. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the phone to her ear. She tried to even her breathing, but it was no use. Punching the wall was much more satisfying.

“What?” Grantaire said, voice cracking down the phone. The signal had always been crap in this house. Éponine blamed the damp. She had no idea if that made any sense, but she didn’t care. She just liked having something to blame.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

Grantaire’s response to this was, of course, to laugh.

“R, I swear to god, don’t,” Éponine said, flopping back onto her bed.

“Sorry, but you’re at your little sister’s birthday party,” Grantaire said. “I find it hard to believe that anything happened for you to be that pissed off about.”

“R,” Éponine said. She took a deep breath. “It’s her _sixteenth_ birthday.”

Éponine smirked when Grantaire went silent. Good, that shut him up.

“She didn’t,” Grantaire said, uncertainly.

“She absolutely fucking did. The little shit.”

“I don’t think I want to hear this story,” Grantaire said, after a moment.

Grantaire was always oddly reluctant to talk about soulmates these days. Éponine didn’t understand it. They’d first become friends when Éponine started cornering him after Philosophy and Ethics class, thinking it her place to educate him on the subject. Grantaire had been bemused by the whole thing, but seemed happy enough to go along with it. He’d gotten particularly into it when he realised he was gay, and asked Éponine to find out what that meant for his soulmate. Éponine studied it for him and assured him that his soulmate would definitely be a “guy who liked guys”. Yet a year or so later, Grantaire started point blank refusing to talk about it anymore. Éponine never understood why. She wasn’t used to having friends, and rarely let anything go from her life without a fight, so her response to this was to become his best friend. She talked about anything and everything else, never forcing the issue. Yet today she was unsympathetic.

“Well, that’s tough shit,” Éponine said, as Grantaire snorted. “Hearing it is nowhere as bad as living it, believe me.”

“You wanna bet? You’re the one narrating it.”

Éponine decided to just ignore him. “Picture the goddamn scene. Zelma’s about to blow out the candles on her cake, right? That I _made for her._ Damn, I _made her that cake_ , and this is what fucking happens. I want my cake back.”

“Ép,” Grantaire said. “Focus.”

“Right, so, she’s about to get spit all over my fucking masterpiece. I’m doing the countdown to the minute she was born. Gav and Parnasse are cheering her on, right? And all her stupid friends are singing ‘happy birthday’ out of tune. Same as every year. 3, 2, 1, shit. Then she starts complaining that she’s burnt herself. I go wet a cloth because she’s such a whiny brat, I swear to god. I stick it on her wrist and she immediately says it doesn’t hurt anymore, because she’s a bitch, so I take the cloth off, and what do I fucking see?”

“What?” Grantaire asks, when Éponine stops speaking.

“Montparnasse. Montpar-fucking-nasse. My baby sister _soulbonded_ with my _goddamn bastard boyfriend._ ”

“Oh god,” Grantaire said.

“Just, what the hell, R? What. The. Fucking. Hell?” Éponine growled, breaths coming in harsher and harsher as her anger mounted.

Grantaire hesitated. “Ép, that’s shit. Really shit. I’m sorry. I’m coming over to yours and bringing you all the good stuff I can carry. But I’ve got to get off the phone right now because I’m about to start laughing.”

“You’re the worst best friend ever,” Éponine growled, hanging up.

She wrote ‘Parnasse’ with a Sharpie on her pillow, and then started beating it up with the kind of ferocity usually associated with street brawls. It was only fair that Azelma’s pillow then got the same treatment. Or her whole room.

**-**

Grantaire spent so much time playing devil’s advocate that he thought he was owed some sort of payment from the man himself. Since no sum appeared to be forthcoming, he paid himself in alcohol. Grantaire had never met a fact he couldn’t challenge, or an unlikely theory he couldn’t make a case for. More importantly, he’d never met an alcoholic drink he didn’t get on immensely well with. To begin with, anyway. When the hangover came, it was clear that the alcohol had secretly hated him all along. Such was life.

Yet, when anyone decided to wax on about soulmates in his presence, Grantaire just decided to drink. He’d already challenged it time and again, and was bored of the game. That’s all his challenging was; a game. He defended things he hated and he damned things he loved. It’d been so long since he’d expressed his own opinions in a debate that he wasn’t even sure what they were anymore.

Soulbonding wasn’t just a fact; it was the foundation of their entire society. Destiny, he didn’t believe in. A name on a wrist couldn’t force you to do anything. Yet he couldn’t deny that there was something predetermined about that same name appearing when you met someone. There had to be; though Grantaire wasn’t sure about it meaning the two people were a ‘perfect fit’. If it wasn’t something ingrained, surely more than one name would appear? That only one name ever appeared on anyone’s wrist in their lifetime was one of the issues Grantaire had with the entire concept. How could there be only one person in the world that could make you happy? Moreover, how could there be a person in the world who could actually make you happy?

The idea left Grantaire’s mind reeling. Yet, every time he went searching, the evidence was just staring him in the face. Thousands, no, millions of couples throughout history who had entered into ridiculously happy relationships upon the second they met each other. Shotgun weddings had become the norm, over time. Couples just didn’t see the point in waiting. Alongside the obituaries and the births in every newspaper was a column listing that week’s soulbonds. There was no denying it; the system worked.

As with all systems, it wasn’t without its flaws. If you looked hard enough, you could find hundreds of cases where it had all gone horrifically wrong. The fact of it was that when someone was born, or whenever it was that this destiny crap decided who they were supposed to be with, the chances were that they’d have changed by the time they actually met their soulmate. Life could fuck you up in so many ways, and it did; how could anyone possibly be the same person that they were ‘at the start’? People focussed on the success stories to distract themselves from that. Hallmark romances to make them think life was a fairytale, and the system was a dream factory. Funny, how the story of a man who murdered his soulmate and their children never made the news.

Soulmates completely fucked over love, anyhow. If someone was in a relationship with a person who wasn’t their soulmate, then they were just wasting their lives; they had to prepare for worldwide judgement. Though, no one said what they were supposed to do if they couldn’t find their soulmate. Or if their soulmate was an asshole. Or if their soulmate was dead. ‘Love’ was just a time-waster for kids. Something anyone could have before they turned sixteen, but afterwards, were too old for such stupid games. Grantaire had always hated the pitied look people gave him when they found out that his parents hadn’t been soulmates. He’d been the accidental product of two people playing the kids’ game of love. They’d evaded questions while he was growing up, until everything had blown up when his mother met her soulmate and ran off with the guy. It was typical for Grantaire really; he felt it all set the tone for the rest of his life quite nicely.

Sure, the idea of soulbonding was wildly romantic and all the other shit phrases people threw around. Sure, he’d once been excited by it all. When he was young, he’d fantasised about it as much as the next person. Having someone out there who was bound to be with him in the future was pretty comforting. Assuming he found them, of course. Though that ‘if’ was never a great concern when he was young. At that age, everything was about certainty. Grantaire went from knowing someone would love him to wondering _if_ they would, or if they’d feel obligated to be with him. The more he wondered what his soulmate would be like, the more he wondered what kind of soulmate he would be for them. As soon as the reality of himself being someone’s soulmate entered the scenario, Grantaire’s feelings about the whole thing were shot to hell.

Though Grantaire would never admit it, he’d hoped to see Éponine’s name on his wrist on his birthday. He wasn’t in love with her or anything, and he was pretty secure in his sexuality, but he was still disappointed. Éponine wouldn’t have wanted to be his soulmate, though. She was far too romantic for that. He wanted to forget soulmates existed; Éponine spent her life sitting and waiting for the ‘happily ever after’ that she believed she was owed. That she never once questioned.

Their friendship was odd, even to him. They’d started off with Éponine basically shoving every soulbonding manifesto so far down his throat that he couldn’t breathe, and not relenting until he appeared somewhat excited. Then, when he swore off the concept, he’d expected her to leave. Contrary as ever, she’d started hanging out with him more than ever before, and sometimes being unnervingly nice and affectionate. Then one day, he let slip that she was his best friend. Something seemed to flick in Éponine’s brain, and gone were the niceties. Grantaire soon realised that she was showing him what she thought were the worst sides to herself, so Grantaire decided to do the same. When they were sixteen, they spent a few months in competition, constantly trying to outdo each other. Éponine would wake up in the middle of the night to Grantaire climbing in her window completely wasted and vomiting over her carpet; Grantaire would wake up to Éponine dumping stuff she’d stolen into his wardrobe and asking for an alibi. They’d seen each other at their most drunk, their most ill, their most cynical, and their most depressed. Yet they were still there for each other, and would still rather sit and watch stupid movies with each other than pretty much anything else. They weren’t in competition anymore, but that time had been good. They could now see each other at their worst and not even blink.

That was why Grantaire had wanted her to be his soulmate; he couldn’t imagine ever getting so lucky again. He couldn’t believe that even this one person had accepted him, let alone two.

Grantaire didn’t talk about soulmates because he didn’t want one. Well, honestly, he wanted one more than anything, but he told himself he didn’t. What sort of soulmate would Grantaire be for someone? He was argumentative, cynical and often drunk. He had depression. He drank because he was depressed, and he was depressed because he drank. Round and round the mulberry bush. People admired all the random shit he could do, but it wasn’t like any of that had any real worth. He could box, he could dance, he could fence, and he could quote classics. So what? Sure, he could sketch, but he couldn’t do math. According to his father, that was all that mattered. It was like he’d been destined to be useless. Who could love him? Who deserved to be saddled with him for the rest of their lives, all because of some name on their wrist?

Grantaire hoped that name never appeared. Well, that’s what he told himself anyway.

-

The worst part about being at university was that she couldn’t keep an eye on Azelma at all times, Éponine thought. Getting to share a dorm with Grantaire was pretty boss though. Even better was that her parents weren’t around anymore, and there were no stupid siblings to feed. Only having to study one subject made her head hurt less too. But Azelma.

Ever since that birthday party, Éponine had tried her damned hardest to make sure Azelma and Montparnasse never saw each other. It wasn’t that she was jealous, or being spiteful, no. She’d never once thought Montparnasse was her soulmate. But he wasn’t good enough for her sister.

Éponine hated Azelma. Just as she hated Gavroche. But they were _her_ Azelma and _her_ Gavroche. Nobody else was allowed anywhere near them. Especially not narcissistic asshole pretty boys _who wear top hats_. No. Éponine was allowed to date him because he’d liked her and he knew how to be persistent about it. And, well, she didn’t really mind wasting time with him. Trying to find her soulmate before turning sixteen would’ve been a stupid thing to do, anyway. She’d seen her classmates do it, falling in ‘love’ with each other and thinking that they’re ‘the one’, and then everything going to shit on their birthdays. Sixteenth birthday parties had become renowned for being a complete disaster zone. Like Azelma’s.

Montparnasse was a great lay, but he wasn’t nice. As Éponine tried to break away from her parents and high-profile crimes, Montparnasse sought to become some sort of kingpin. With him as Azelma’s soulmate, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

Éponine was still as obsessed with soulmates as she always had been; age had only heightened the excitement. Yet this messed completely with her head; she was basically vandalising the sanctity of soulmates and she knew it. She’d never before doubted that the soulmate system was infallible, but just this one time, it was a sacrifice she resolved to make. Not that she didn’t argue with herself over it a few times. Nor did Azelma willingly go along with it.

Éponine well knew that Azelma snuck out after Éponine fell asleep. If there was anyone in the family who had taken more after their dad, it was Azelma. She was a damn sight smaller than he was too, so she was the best out of all of them at sneaking around. Éponine had tried to stop her, but she was so good at it that Éponine didn’t usually realise until Azelma had come already back.

Threatening them had only partly worked: Montparnasse had taken to completely avoiding Éponine at school through complete fear, but Azelma carried on as she always had. Éponine had to try though. She’d tried all of her dad’s tricks, through bribery to outright stalking. Azelma saw through everything and always spotted Éponine before she’d even reached any of the Patron-Minette.

Éponine had tried to ask Gavroche to help, but he’d demanded payment, and would skip away singing some obscene song when Éponine said she had no money. Useless brother. She’d also tried to convince Gavroche to take over from her when she left, but he’d refused, as expected.

“She can do what the hell she wants,” Gavroche had said. “She ain’t harming nobody. I don’t give a toss about this soulmate business anyway. Don’t put food on the table, does it?”

So, after a week of being at university, Éponine was growing restless. Montparnasse was out there somewhere defiling her little sister without her being able to make him have a nervous breakdown over it. She couldn’t take it anymore.

Using her student loan, she’d managed to buy out Gueulemer as to where they’d all probably be going that night. She dressed herself in all-black clothing and painted her face, which Grantaire had laughed so hard about that she thought he might have a (deserved) aneurism, and set off after midnight.

Éponine prepared herself to do a warlike charge into battle when she finally spotted them, but curiosity held her back. The two of them were sitting, of all places, up a tree in the Jardin du Luxembourg. Éponine rolled her eyes at the cliché. She thought someone who wore a top hat might be more original with his seduction techniques. Éponine snuck up to the tree as quietly as she could until she was within earshot.

“I’m bored, Parnasse,” Azelma said. Éponine could see her swinging her legs.

“Here, have another cigarette,” he replied.

They went silent for a moment, with only the sound of a lighter being flicked on.

“Where’s everyone else?” Azelma asked.

“I told you; they’re running the heist.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

“Because I’m staying with you.”

“And why am _I_ not there?”

“Because I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Éponine rolled her eyes, and judging by Azelma’s response, she was doing the same.

“Parnasse, you’re forgetting _who I am_. Who _my parents_ are. Heck, I’d be willing to bet I’m even better at all this than you!”

Azelma giggled slightly and Éponine saw her legs playfully kick at Montparnasse’s. Montparnasse gave a soft huffing sound that Éponine remembered being his weird laugh.

“You might be,” he said.

“So?”

“I still don’t want to risk it. You’re important.”

“’Important’?” Azelma said, teasingly. “How dreadfully romantic that word is!”

Montparnasse gave that soft laugh again, and whatever look he gave Azelma must have quietened her because she didn’t speak again for a few moments.

“Do you love me, Parnasse?” Azelma asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

Here it was. The moment Éponine had been dreading. She eyed up the tree in front of her; she wouldn’t be able to climb it very fast. The best idea would be to jump and yank Montparnasse onto the ground by his legs.

“Then why won’t you kiss me?” Azelma asked.

Éponine stopped. What even? Maybe she had it all wrong. So they weren’t secretly hooking up every night?

“Because you’re only seventeen.”

“So?”

“I’m twenty.”

“I know. And your birthday is December 21st,” Azelma said, voice teasing again.

“That’s not the point. You’re too young.”

“I wasn’t too young to soulbond with you!”

“That’s not the point.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“So are you.”

Azelma gave a petulant sigh.

“I promise,” he said. “When you’re eighteen.”

Azelma was quiet for a moment. “Will you bring me roses?”

“If you want.”

Azelma sighed again. “I’ll just have to make do with all this talking to you every night then. Just for a while longer.”

“I like it,” Montparnasse said, after a pause.

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Of course, silly,” Azelma replied, teasing again. “Tell me again about that time you broke Gueulemer out of prison.”

Having heard this story told in its bragging tone far too many times to count, Éponine started to leave. She thought she’d heard enough anyway. She still hated that they were soulmates, and had anything to do with each other, but at least he was keeping her safe. Which was not something that Éponine had ever expected. Azelma seemed happy and she wasn’t in danger; that was the important bit.

Sneaking wasn’t designed for the fastest getaway, so Éponine had barely made it ten foot from the tree before she heard Montparnasse and Azelma climbing down it. Éponine dashed to hide in a bush. Her sister had already clearly seen her, as she and Éponine locked eyes. Éponine continued to hide, Montparnasse at least still oblivious. Azelma stared at her in silence for a long moment; she appeared to be thinking. Whatever it was about, she seemed to come to some conclusion, and she nodded in Éponine’s direction. Azelma then took a deep breath, and walked away. It was a while before she and Éponine spoke again, and they never mentioned the incident. Éponine didn’t try to come between them anymore, leaving her baby sister to grow up.

-

To say that Grantaire hated Joly was completely incongruous. For Joly wasn’t really a person in the strictest sense; well, not like ‘normal people’, anyway. Joly was an element.

Joly had been a person until his sixteenth birthday. Wasn’t that always the way? Grantaire had been there to watch the entire scene, deemed it ridiculous, but loved it.

Grantaire and Joly had been friends since they were six years old, meeting in the classroom when Joly had been upset because he couldn’t mix the right shade of green with his paints. Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet had been friends since they were seven years old, when Bossuet had been transferred into their class and had promptly crashed into the paint pots, causing Joly to panic about him being poisoned and try to clean him, while Grantaire had fallen on the floor laughing. Thus the friendship had been sealed. Naturally.

Grantaire knew that Joly and Bossuet were closer to each other than to him. The two of them had the exact same sense of humour. Grantaire knew he was difficult to deal with; he was just happy they were friends with him at all. So when Joly started dating Musichetta, it was Bossuet who needed comforting. Grantaire cheered Bossuet up by teasing Joly - affectionately, of course - which Joly made exceptionally easy by being completely overdramatic about the whole thing, fretting about every flirtation and hand-hold. Their threesome soon became a foursome, Musichetta fitting in with them as if she’d always been there. Although the more Grantaire drank, the more they became a trio, and Grantaire felt like an optional add-on.

By some ridiculous coincidence, Joly and Bossuet had their birthdays in the same week. They’d always shared a party, held on Joly’s actual birthday, which came second of the two. They’d done the whole countdown ritual. Joly’s face had lit up when he’d felt that burning on his wrist, saying he’d always known it would be Musichetta. Yet everyone in the room had started when Bossuet yelped at his own wrist. Joly and Bossuet had soulbonded.

Joly always referred to it as ‘the lightbulb moment’; the moment he’d realised that he loved Bossuet. Bossuet had admitted to having those same feelings for Joly to Grantaire a year earlier. But as Joly had looked at Musichetta, he’d known that he still loved her too, soulbond or no soulbond. All it’d taken for Bossuet to understand this was to look at their faces. Grantaire was still baffled by it to this day, but somehow an entire conversation had happened between them without a single word being spoken and within the space of about thirty seconds. Bossuet had simply grinned, walked over to Musichetta, and kissed her.

And that was that. They’d become stupidly domestic within the week. They quickly stopped being Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet and became Joly-Musichetta-Bossuet. JMB, as Grantaire called them. Three separate elements comprising a whole. They were met with confusion wherever they went, but they didn’t care. Musichetta never felt left out because she wasn’t their soulmate, because they loved each other as equals. They never worried about if Musichetta would one day get her tattoo, because they were happy. Complete happiness, deep in your soul, had a knack for doing that.

So for Grantaire to say he hated Joly was incongruous, for he would have to say he hated JMB. It was definitely Joly’s fault, but Grantaire doubted that any of them could have a single independent thought, so Joly got the blame because he happened to be there.

Grantaire had known it was a bad idea from the start. Joly had countered that Grantaire thought every idea was a bad one. Grantaire had replied that he was usually right.

Yet Joly had insisted, so here Grantaire was. Standing in a room packed with about a hundred other people in some hall on campus that Grantaire had never heard of. He was crammed up against people on all sides, being bumped around whenever someone moved.

What were they all here for? It was a fucking political rally.

“I need new friends,” Grantaire said.

“That stopped being a threat when we were eleven,” Joly said, laughing.

“Why did you drag me here?”

“It’s important to us.”

“Why?”

“Chetta.”

Grantaire elbowed the person next to him as he tried to pull the flier out of his pocket. Joly pointed at the subject of the speech that was about to begin in the next few minutes.

“Oh,” Grantaire said.

Joly seemed a little edgy as he looked around the room for Bossuet and Musichetta. Grantaire swallowed. He hated politics; it was just a bunch of elitist douchebags crushing the everyman and kissing their own asses for being heroes. But this was different.

“I’ll sign whatever you want me to, okay?” Grantaire said.

Joly’s face broke out into a huge grin. He tried to hug Grantaire, but in a room that full, it ended up being an awkward headlock. Joly opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was about to say was lost to obscurity as the other two parts of JMB arrived. Bossuet, unsurprisingly, had a black eye already.

“Someone elbowed me in the face,” Bossuet said, grinning like he always did when something happened to him. So, about fifty percent of his whole life.

“It’s about to start,” Musichetta said excitedly, placing her index finger from each hand on both Joly’s and Bossuet’s lips.

They all turned their attention to the ramshackle platform at the front of the room. A young man with glasses, who looked about Grantaire’s age, was standing on it and motioning for everyone in the room to quieten down. Grantaire glanced over at and apologised to the man next to him as he was bumped into him. Then he looked up at the young man that had just walked onto the stage. And that was when what had been a bad idea from the start became a fucking _disaster_.

No, no no no, shit, shit shit _fuck_. Not now. Not fucking _ever_.

Grantaire wrestled to get his wrist up to his eye-line, hurriedly ripping the sleeve of his green hoodie up his arm. His knuckles had turned white from the fists he was making, and his breathing had become too fast. Not only was his wrist burning, his chest and throat were too. There it was. The fucking soulmate tattoo. The one he’d hoped to never see. Through his panic, he could barely focus his vision long enough to actually read it.

 _Enjolras_.

What the hell kind of name was ‘Enjolras’?

Grantaire instinctively pulled his sleeve back down and gripped his wrist with his other hand, as if that would make it disappear. Shit, they’d never said at school how intense the burning actually was. It fucking _hurt_.

“R? Breathe,” Joly said.

Joly had his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders, and Grantaire had no idea when they’d gotten there.

“Breathe with me,” Joly said. “You’re going to be okay. Just breathe with me.”

Joly took a deep exaggerated breath while gripping Grantaire’s shoulders hard. Grantaire copied him as best he could. As the two of them had done countless times before.

“No,” Grantaire said. “I’m okay. I’m-I’m not having a panic attack.”

“Are you sure?” Joly asked, voice quickening. “We can go outside if you want. It’s very cramped in here. It’s really hot actually. There are _so many people_. OH GOD, are you claustrophobic? I didn’t know that. Oh god, oh god, we can go outside right now, it’s okay, will you all move please, we need to-”

“Joly, I’m fine, really,” Grantaire said, trying his best to smile.

This was the way it always went: Grantaire panicked and Joly was completely relaxed. The poster-boy for composure. Yet it was like the calmer Grantaire got, the panic somehow transferred onto Joly, who got more and more worked up until Grantaire had to calm _him_ down.

“Okay,” Joly said, doing some more deep breaths, but this time for himself.

Grantaire smiled, and did a thumbs-up at Bossuet and Musichetta, who’d both been looking concerned. He saw Bossuet take Joly’s hand, and Joly visibly relaxed. Grantaire wondered who Enjolras was. There were so many people in this room; it could be anyone. Grantaire then noticed that the burning on his wrist had stopped. Thank god for that. Then all he needed was something to drink, and he could try to forget the whole thing had happened.

“People of Paris and fellow students,” the man at the front began. “We all know that soulmates are everything.”

Okay, forgetting wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

“Or so we are made to believe,” the man continued. “The doctrines of soulbonding are ingrained into every piece of information we are given from when we are born. In every advertisement, in every news story, in every lie and truth we are told. We are taught it and we are expected to worship it. The social class of the soulmate has taken over our entire society. We are to be born, soulbond, live our lives in the domestic idyll and then we are to die. Never doing, never questioning. To be still searching for our soulmate is considered to be in the infancy of life. No matter how old we are, how much we have experienced, we are but children.”

Grantaire, despite himself, was entranced. The man who was talking looked no older than Grantaire himself was, though he seemed so much _more_. He wasn’t just addressing them from a hastily put-together platform; he was calling down to them from Mount Sinai. He spoke with such authority that Grantaire wanted nothing more than to obey. His passion left Grantaire feeling blind. He seemed to Grantaire to be a god, yet here he was proclaiming his humanity. Had Heracles deigned, upon arriving in Mount Olympus, to return to Earth? Or had Icarus managed to reach the sun, to return with its fires alight in his soul?

“’Destiny’ is just another word for ‘control’. I will not have my life dictated for me. This emphasis on soulbonding is to distract us from noticing life around us. Namely, the treatment of the unattached person. If you do not find your soulmate before the age of thirty, you are condemned. If you choose to not be with your soulmate for any reason, you are condemned. We are being blinded to the fact that our rights are being stripped from us. Over the past year, the law was changed and this was hidden from us. If you are married to someone without a soulbond, you are not entitled to any form of benefit from the government. If you are struggling to raise a child, you will not receive any help. Offspring of non-soulbond relationships, or ‘pro-love couples’, are expected to be put up for adoption or sent into the foster system, where they will receive little to no care or supervision. If you are from a pro-love family, you are less likely to be employed or to attain a place at any reputed school.”

Grantaire broke his gaze away to glance at Musichetta. No soulmate, and in a relationship that managed to be both soulbonded and pro-love. JMB were all holding hands. United. Grantaire had known that pro-love children were disadvantaged, of course he did; he was one of them. But the law change was new. He knew then why being here was so important to the three of them: the future of any children they would have was being directly threatened.

“Society would have us believe that they are lesser people, of a different class to those in soulbonded families,” the man continued. “This is not true. We are the same, and always have been the same. Look beyond the lies and the fronts, and see beneath the surface: soulbonded families are not always the paradise we are led to believe.”

The room was completely silent. The man seemed to study all of them. Grantaire instinctively averted his eyes.

“In solidarity with my fellow people, if and when I receive my soulmate tattoo, I will not look at it. I will not be controlled by a name on my wrist. My life is my own, and your life is yours.”

The man then raised his hand slightly, turning it into a fist.

“Take it,” he said.

At this point, the room erupted. People shouted, cheered, chanted. The man grinned widely, though it seemed as if the smile had broken out against his will. As he started to walk away, he raised his fist again towards the crowd, higher than before. It seemed unplanned, somehow less calculated than anything else he’d done or said. It was the kind of punching-the-air salute usually associated with sports. It made his godlike visage seem to break and he became simply human; it threw Grantaire off completely. Yet the man shone.

He retreated as the man with the glasses took his place. He smiled at the crowd and waited for the noise to quieten down.

“Thank you everyone, for listening,” he said. “We would ask you to please sign our petition, campaigning for equal rights for all families. We hold weekly meetings for our society, the Friends of the ABC, at the Corinthe bar on campus on Wednesdays at 8pm, which anyone is welcome to attend. If any of you are interested in talking to any of us about what you have heard today, please come along. My name is Combeferre, and that was Enjolras.”

Grantaire immediately stopped listening as soon as he saw Combeferre gesture to the man who’d been speaking.

Enjolras. The godlike speaker.

Enjolras?

_No fucking way._

Grantaire felt his wrist burning again, though he knew he was imagining it. He edged his sleeve slowly back, to peek at the name again. He must’ve gotten it wrong.

There it was. Clear as anything. _Enjolras_.

“Hey, look at R’s face!” Bossuet said. “Good speech, huh?”

Bossuet’s slap on his arm seemed to break Grantaire out of his trance. He hurriedly pulled his sleeve down so far that his hand disappeared from sight. Whatever his face looked like right now, apparently it was hilarious, for Bossuet started honest-to-god _guffawing_.

“Looks like you approved, then? Wasn’t too boring for you?” Musichetta asked.

Grantaire hated Musichetta’s eyebrows. They often quirked in a way that made it seem like she knew all of his secrets and was going to use them to make his life hell. Grantaire wondered if there was any way she could already know about his tattoo. No. There wasn’t. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.

“No,” Grantaire said, hating the way his voice cracked. “It was... great.”

“Wasn’t it!” Joly exclaimed. “We should join their society!”

Grantaire’s resigned ‘oh god’ was barely heard over Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s enthusiastic agreement. Grantaire was vaguely aware of being ushered towards a petition and mechanically signing his name when Bossuet prodded him, but he couldn’t get out of his own head. He wasn’t even thinking; all his brain could manage were the words ‘Enjolras’ and ‘no fucking way’, spinning them around like some sort of sick merry-go-round.

Of course, Grantaire bolted immediately afterwards. He wasn’t even sure where he was going. All he knew was that he hated Joly, he hated JMB, and he should’ve followed his gut that going along with them had been a bad idea, because this was _the worst fucking thing that could’ve happened_.

-

Éponine Thénardier met her soulmate on a cold Thursday afternoon, at the age of eighteen and five months. Autumn was becoming winter; dead brown leaves clung to the tree branches in desperation before falling gracelessly to the ground, hopelessly crinkled and folded in on themselves. Éponine was standing in the middle of the university courtyard, waiting for Grantaire to get out of class so they could get lunch together. She picked absently at the frays on her fingerless gloves, watching her breath come out in clouds before her. There was a hum of people around her bustling to and from classes, their dress varying from light scarves to full-on ski jackets. Éponine always dressed light; she hated clothes that restricted her movement, having had to be nimble for most of her life. Because of this, she never wore actual gloves, no matter how cold it was. Got to keep those fingers available.

A force then impacted with Éponine’s shoulder, surprising her, yet she had practice at holding her ground. The person who had bumped into her, on the other hand, seemed to toss their entire weight onto Éponine. She put her arms around the person to steady them, and without really thinking about it, stuck her hand into the pocket of their puffy jacket. A wallet. Bingo. She swiftly stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans before trying to help the person stand up.

“You okay th-” Éponine started to ask with exaggerated concern.

She stopped. Her wrist. It felt like it was on fire. But the rest of her felt like she was flying.

This was it, this was it, thiswasit THISWASIT _THISWASIT!_

An enormous grin broke out on her face and her hands shook in excitement. The person – _her soulmate_ – had been talking but she’d barely heard a word they’d said; something about an apology. Her soulmate’s face was deep red – Éponine hoped it was because he was blushing – and heavily freckled. She couldn’t tell much else about his appearance because of his enormous coat and his hood was up. He had cute eyes though. He looked a little dorky, Éponine admitted, which wasn’t usually her type at all. Maybe he was ripped under the coat though.

Her soulmate’s eyebrow furrowed; Éponine realised that not only had she not spoken, she’d also started quietly giggling from sheer exhilaration.

“Uh, no prob,” she said, hoping it was an appropriate response to whatever he’d been saying.

It seemed to work, because her soulmate’s blush lightened slightly – phew, it was just a blush – and he smiled. Or, made an attempt to smile. It didn’t seem very confident in itself. Éponine started to laugh again but for an entirely different reason.

“I’m Éponine,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Pontmercy,” he replied. “Uh, Marius.”

His attempt to shake her hand was even less confident than his attempt to smile had been. His gloved hand was completely limp and barely in hers for a second before he ripped it away again. He seemed reluctant to look her in the eyes, just glancing to her and then away repeatedly.

“Thank you, uh,” Marius said. “For helping me up. Yeah. Class. Gotta go. Bye.”

Before Éponine could shout after him, she was looking at the figure of her soulmate dashing in through the university doors at the other side of the courtyard. He could be nearly as fast her. Maybe that was what made them compatible, she wondered.

Éponine touched her fingers to her dimples from her smile. Her cheeks would start to hurt soon, but she didn’t care if she kept smiling forever. She moved her glove and sleeve to expose her wrist, and there it was: Marius’ name inked black and stretched across her wrist.

-

“What _the hell_ am I doing here?” Grantaire asked.

Bossuet just laughed. Damn Bossuet. Grantaire couldn’t wait for Bossuet to walk into a door or trip over his own feet or whatever else the night had coming up; Grantaire hoped it would knock Bossuet out anyhow. It’d serve the tosser right.

More than that though, Grantaire wanted to leave. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be sucked in again. The rally had been bad enough; now here he was, about to go to one of the meetings led by the 123ABC Friends or whatever the hell their name was.

Grantaire had a reputation to uphold, one that he had spent years building. Useless Grantaire. Drunkard Grantaire. Not fucking _political_ Grantaire.

He’d tried to argue his way out of it; he really had. Kind of.

He’d wanted to hang out with JMB that night, and they’d said they were going to this meeting so asked him to come. Grantaire had told them to piss off. Chetta had said ‘please’, and told him it was held at a bar. And. Well.

“The day you stop dragging me to pointless events that I couldn’t give a toss about is the day I become a happy man,” he said.

“The day you stop pretending to be apathetic is the day I become a happy woman,” Chetta said.

“You’re already happy,” Grantaire said. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

“True,” she said, winking.

Grantaire braced himself as Chetta pulled him, Joly and Bossuet in through the door of the Corinthe. He breathed out a sigh of relief though as he looked around. It was all dark wooden panels, cosy booths and small round tables. Moreover, it had that familiar musky scent that screamed ‘bar’ that Grantaire loved so much. No statues of Napoleon. No flags over the walls. It was just a bar; an average, run-of-the-distillery bar. Grantaire could deal with that.

Grantaire bee-lined straight for the barman; may as well make himself at home, right? JMB all followed his lead, settling down round a table near the back. Just like a normal night out. Grantaire could totally do this. No big deal. Or so he told himself, as he drank his beer too fast.

He tried to focus on the conversation, but he was distracted. Any minute now. He told himself to stop thinking about it, because hyping it up wouldn’t make it any easier. The last thing any of them needed was for him to have a panic attack. Just drink, he told himself. Drinking made the worries go away.

Of course Grantaire was right. He hated being right. None of the worrying, or even the drinking, had done the slightest bit of good when Enjolras finally walked in. Grantaire silently berated himself when he realised that he was _smiling_. Why the hell was he smiling?

None of Grantaire’s paintings had done Enjolras justice. Admittedly, Grantaire had been drunk for all of them, though that was hardly unusual. It was the expression on Enjolras’ face that Grantaire completely failed to capture. Righteous fury, he’d taken to calling it. Not that Grantaire had any right to be naming anything that belonged to Enjolras.

As Enjolras walked to stand in front of the bar, Grantaire only then noticed that the rest of the people in the bar had been talking; it was only in the silence that he felt the absence of chatter. The room had a fair number of people scattered around in it – maybe twenty, thirty, Grantaire wasn’t sure – but all of them had stopped as they watched Enjolras. The barman had even left his post to sit at a table. Grantaire gulped, telling himself that he was just imagining that his tattoo was burning. He moved to sit on his hand, to get his wrist out of his sight, before he realised how absurd that was.

Enjolras hadn’t noticed him; of course, he had no reason to. Enjolras was staring intently down at some pieces of paper in his hand. He was wearing a deep red button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. Grantaire then noticed the wristband that Enjolras was wearing.

To hide the tattoo. Because he didn’t want to see the name on it. Right.

Grantaire hadn’t forgotten, not really. Just, the entire day had become muddled in his head, and it was hard for him to put the pieces together properly. And that he’d been trying to avoid thinking about it.

He’d failed miserably, obviously. He was only human.

And that was the whole problem, Grantaire thought bitterly. Time to drink.

Grantaire’s mood didn’t improve once Enjolras started talking. Was Enjolras incapable of talking about anything other than soulmates? Did that really have to be Enjolras’ main cause? Grantaire couldn’t forget about it all if he’d wanted to. Forget salt on the wound, it was an entire pitcher of salt into the giant gash.

Enjolras was perfect; of course he was fucking perfect. Grantaire had a hard enough time imagining himself as anyone’s soulmate, let alone the soulmate to this _god._ Grantaire reminded himself to tell Bossuet later that his reign of bad luck must be over, because Grantaire was stealing his territory.

To think that Grantaire was in any way connected to Enjolras was laughable. No, actually, it wasn’t. It wasn’t funny at all. To think that the universe, some deity, whatever the hell it was that decided, had thought that Grantaire and Enjolras were ‘perfect for each other’: now that was funny. But the reality of it was too bitter for Grantaire to laugh.

Forget ‘poor Grantaire’; it was Enjolras who didn’t deserve this.

The more Grantaire thought, the happier he became about Enjolras’ wristband. No, happy wasn’t the word. Pleased, maybe? Thankful? Grantaire wasn’t sure. If Enjolras never looked at his wrist, then he’d never know, and then everything would be alright. Maybe. For Enjolras. That was what mattered. Grantaire deserved every mess he got himself into; whether he was happy or not was irrelevant. Grantaire’s happiness was kind of shot to hell as soon as he’d started drinking, anyway. That wasn’t exactly a new development.

That wristband was Grantaire’s saving grace. He hoped Enjolras would never take it off.

Grantaire had become so lost in his own head that he’d forgotten what was happening. Enjolras was mid-tirade, with everyone else listening intently. Enjolras was still talking about soulmates. Grantaire was glad to know he hadn’t missed anything.

“While the benefits and rights are being constantly stripped from those without soulmates,” Enjolras said. “The government are using the money those people deserve to keep enforcing the idea that our society is perfect. When someone marries their soulmate, they are given a large cash payment in ‘celebration of their love’. This money could be used to feed the starving and to house the homeless.”

Grantaire felt it happening before he could stop himself. He laughed.

Enjolras looked at him. As did everyone else. Not that Grantaire cared.

Grantaire hated how excited he was. Enjolras’ glare on him should have been terrifying. In a way, it was. The passionate expression on Enjolras’ face as he spoke was nothing compared to his scowl right then. His brow was deeply furrowed, with his eyes bright and fixed on Grantaire, unblinking and unwavering. Grantaire felt rooted to his seat, yet he was starting to feel giddy. Enjolras was paying attention to him – Grantaire didn’t care what’d caused it.

Grantaire felt himself grin mockingly at Enjolras. Enjolras continued to stare at him in silence for a few moments, before finally taking his eyes off Grantaire. Grantaire tried to listen as Enjolras talked, but found himself laughing again when Enjolras was describing how the money should be distributed by the government.

“Is there a problem?” Enjolras asked.

“With me?” Grantaire asked. “Oh, there are plenty. But one evening is too far short for me to list them all here.”

Enjolras didn’t seem to know how to respond to this, so simply carried on talking, yet his gaze kept flickering back to Grantaire as he spoke. Grantaire was completely delighted by this. Grantaire didn’t even need to laugh again to stop Enjolras; all he did was smile, and Enjolras glared at him again.

“What’s so funny?” Enjolras asked.

“It’s just incredibly cute that you think world hunger would be over if the government stopped giving out freebies.”

Grantaire took a drink of his beer then, while maintaining eye contact with Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t seem as thrilled by the exchange as Grantaire was.

“This isn’t just about the payments,” Enjolras said. “I’m protesting the manipulative use of this money to control us, and the irresponsible distribution of it by our government resulting in the deaths of people who could be saved.”

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire said, rolling his eyes. “What I find funny is you thinking that if the freebies stopped, the money would somehow magically go to the poor. I have news for you: the politicians would just put the money in their pockets. I know I’d rather the money went to some nice couple who just got married than buying some rich guy more Rolexes.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows as he kept staring at Grantaire, then seemed to take a deep breath. Part of Grantaire wished he could stop himself talking. Turn back time and go back to being invisible. Yet Grantaire knew that in no universe could he have done that. He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. What point was he trying to make? Getting Enjolras to pay attention to him. Oh yeah, that was it.

“We need to take the power out of their hands,” Enjolras said. “If we all stood against them and rebelled-”

“That’s the problem,” Grantaire said. “You can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“You can’t get people to care.”

Grantaire felt Bossuet kicking him under the table, so Grantaire kicked him back. Grantaire kept his eyes fixed on Enjolras; if he looked at anyone else, he knew reality would come crashing down around him. Now that he’d started, he had to keep going. Grantaire had never been one for just burning his fingers; he had to completely go up in flames.

“If we can make them see that they are being controlled, they will join us,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire laughed. “That’s naïve.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Fucking idealists,” Grantaire said, taking another drink.

“Nobody wants to be controlled.”

“Look around you,” Grantaire said. “ _Everyone_ wants to be controlled.”

If Grantaire had once had a point, it had completely vanished by now. Grantaire loved getting into debates like this because he had no idea where his argument would end up. He was a firm believer in keeping disagreeing with someone until no one could remember what they were actually arguing about in the first place. No winners, no losers. Just good fun.

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants freedom,” Enjolras said.

“No. People want to be told what to do. If people were actually free, they wouldn’t have the slightest fucking clue what to do with it.”

Enjolras didn’t respond, so Grantaire decided to barrel on.

“People don’t like responsibility. When you’re in charge of something, people can blame you when it all goes to shit. No, people want to be told what to do so that nothing can ever be their fault. But more than that, if people had freedom, they’d actually have to _think_. To most people, there’s nothing worse than actually _thinking_. It’s hard. People can’t be bothered. Why do you think reality TV is so popular? Those shows are all about people telling the viewers how to respond to stuff. Mindless. Or, take group projects. What’s the first thing people do when put in a group? Pick a leader. Someone to make all the decisions and then get slaughtered when it all goes to hell. Sure, they’ll argue with the leader the entire time, and say they’d do a better job, but that doesn’t mean they actually want to _do_ anything. How many battles have been won by the king’s army after the king was killed? If people didn’t _need_ a leader, or if they didn’t _want_ to be told what to do, then the death of the king wouldn’t matter; the battle would go to the last man. Then that guy would probably declare himself king and the whole shitstorm would start all over again. Just like the pig, Napoleon. Because that’s the way people will always see it. Freedom is a great idea, but no one would really go through with it. They’ll always think in hierarchies. All people are equal, but some people are more equal than others. That’s who people are, that’s how they think. Welcome to humanity.”

Grantaire paused to take a drink. Was he making sense? He didn’t have a clue. But Enjolras was still staring at him. So why stop?

“The fact of it is that people like being controlled and they always will. Especially by soulmates. You’re never going to get people to protest soulbonding laws because they _love_ all that shit. Soulmate, kids, picket fence, dog: that’s all anyone wants. Beyond that, you can’t get anyone to _care_. People are selfish and always have been. If they’re happy, the world is happy, and life is a Disney romance. People aren’t being blinded by the government; they’re _deliberately_ turning a blind eye. That’s never going to change, and you’re wasting your time by trying.”

Grantaire shook his head, giving Enjolras a grim smile.

“The bottom line is, if we wanted freedom, true freedom, then we’d already have it.”

Grantaire leaned back in his chair, finally breaking eye contact with Enjolras. It was as if that eye contact had been all that was keeping Grantaire oblivious; he now noticed the silence in the room and all the eyes on him. Grantaire stared down at his bottle, picking at the label.

Grantaire tried to shrink into himself. Oh Christ, someone say _something_. Grantaire wanted them to just start spouting their idealist bullshit again. Just, anything.

Enjolras cleared his throat. That sound was far too close. Grantaire didn’t want to, but he knew he couldn’t stop himself; he looked up. Yep, right in front of him. Enjolras was still scowling, but it was different; his brow wasn’t so deeply furrowed. Grantaire didn’t want to know what that meant.

“You’re wrong,” Enjolras said. “I believe in a world where everyone is equal, where everyone is free. People can’t be controlled; not when they’ve opened their eyes. People can change, and they can change the world. I don’t just believe: I know.”

“You’ll see,” Grantaire said.

“No. _You’ll_ see,” Enjolras said, as he walked away.

Well, that just took the fucking cake, didn’t it?

-

If Éponine had known what Grantaire was doing, she would’ve been livid. Grantaire knew it, so he never told her. Well, it was one of the reasons. Really, he didn’t want anyone to know who his soulmate was. It’d been a few weeks, and he was doing a spectacular job of keeping it hidden. Well, _winter_ was doing a good job, allowing him to wear sleeves that kept his wrist covered; summer would be a new battle. It irritated him that Enjolras had stolen the wristband idea first.

Grantaire hadn’t intended for the situation to become what it had. He hadn’t intended it to become a situation at all, frankly. As always, it was JMB’s fault. Well, not at all, but Grantaire had started taking on Éponine’s trait of blaming people. So it was Éponine’s fault. Well, not really. It was Grantaire’s fault. Anyway.

Grantaire hadn’t planned on joining the society. Grantaire hadn’t planned on lots of things. These days, shit just seemed to happen.

After that first delightfully civil conversation with Enjolras, Grantaire had wanted to never come back. Or so he told himself and everyone else. Of course, the person who could be least trusted to talk about Grantaire was Grantaire himself.

Much to the surprise of everyone, especially Enjolras, Grantaire had followed Joly to the next meeting. And the next one. And so it went on, until Combeferre was thrusting a piece of paper in his face and asking him to sign it.

Grantaire’s motives were questionable to even himself. To begin with, he didn’t have the slightest clue what he was doing. He’d go to the meetings, annoy the fuck out of Enjolras, and then drink with everyone else.

Antagonising Enjolras had become one of his favourite hobbies. He’d never admitted to having hobbies before – he just had shit he liked to do – but this was definitely a hobby. Grantaire had always liked playing devil’s advocate, but he’d never gotten the thrill from it before that he got now. He used to do it just to piss people off, which, granted, he enjoyed doing. But with Enjolras, it was different, and it was either shit or brilliant and he could never decide which.

Grantaire knew he was fucked up. This wasn’t news. He tried to care. He tried to stop. Grantaire didn’t know what it was exactly. It wasn’t seeing Enjolras get angry, which _was_ pretty funny sometimes, or even the thrill of debating. It was getting to interact with him in a way that didn’t let Enjolras actually _see_ him. Grantaire had managed to completely obscure himself somehow, and he liked it that way. By the third meeting, when Grantaire’s responses to Enjolras completely contradicted what Grantaire had said the previous week, Enjolras said that he had no idea who Grantaire actually was. Perfect.

Enjolras probably hated him. Well, ‘definitely’ might have been a more accurate word. That didn’t bother Grantaire. Enjolras would never find out what was actually going on, so it didn’t matter what he thought.

So. If Eponine knew that Grantaire had not only met his soulmate, but riled him up to the point of hating him, Éponine probably would’ve beaten his lights out. The ‘sanctity of soulbonding’ was always something she’d taken unnervingly seriously.

Grantaire had thought that was the sum of it. His reason for being at the meetings. Yet Enjolras was only a part of it.

It’d been a long time since Grantaire had been friends with anyone other than JMB or Éponine. Sure, there were people he got on with, but that didn’t really compare. Not that Grantaire thought anyone in the society actually considered him their friend; he just considered them friends of _his_ , and was content to leave it at that.

They were idealists, the whole fucking lot of them. Grantaire would’ve scoffed at anyone who said he would’ve been spending his evenings voluntarily with a bunch of wide-eyed dreamers. They were great escapism, though: they so believed in ‘how great life is’ that they made Grantaire forget for a while about how shit reality actually was. Sure, Grantaire pissed them off all the time – being argumentative wasn’t just reserved for Enjolras – but they all just seemed to come to accept it pretty quickly. Believing in the goodness of humanity would do that to you, Grantaire supposed.

What’d started as Bahorel casually inviting Grantaire to go boxing with him became Jehan writing poems for him; discussing philosophy with Combeferre; partying with Courfeyrac, and talking about art and alcohol with Feuilly. Feuilly had been the barman at Grantaire’s first meeting; the amount of jobs Feuilly had, Grantaire felt tired just to think about. JMB would notice Grantaire hanging out with everyone and look ridiculously sappy, which Grantaire teased them relentlessly about. They all, along with Enjolras, seemed to make up some sort of inner-circle in the society, who hung out after the meetings were over. Grantaire never interacted with Enjolras during this time, but hey, it was nice being around him without him scowling sometimes too. As much as Grantaire pretended otherwise, he really enjoyed it. Sure, he often went home and hated himself for a few hours afterwards, thinking that they all deserved better than having him hanging off them week-in-week-out, but he always went back anyway.

He’d invited Éponine to join them once and she’d laughed. That had been that.

It seemed that soulbonding was the flavour of the month, according to Combeferre anyway. They’d started as a general social justice society, but once Enjolras had become wrapped up in all the soulbonding conspiracy theories, they’d become pretty single-minded for the time being. When Grantaire had asked Combeferre what their endgame was, Combeferre had answered,

“How can you have an endgame when you’ve only just started on the journey? But if you count equal rights for all to be an endgame, whether they’re soulbonded or not, then that.”

So with that as their main topic, Grantaire knew that soulmates would come up at some point in the conversation. He’d tried to avoid it, but after a few weeks, he knew _all_ their damn stories. He always tried to shut the conversation down, or leave, but they were stubborn. It was kind of flattering; Grantaire knew that. It turned out that soulmates were the main reason for most of them being in the society in the first place. Which, Grantaire had to admit, kind of applied for him too.

The first story that Grantaire heard was about Combeferre and Courfeyrac. To look at them, it was impossible to not know they were bonded. If the government could see them, the pair would be cited as one of the success stories.

“Fireworks,” Courfeyrac had said.

“There were no fireworks,” Combeferre had said.

“There were _absolutely_ fireworks.”

“Ignore everything he says.”

“Now Ferre, if you keep denying this, I’m gonna get offended.”

“Fine. There were fireworks. Catherine wheels, bottle rockets, sparklers, the lot.”

“So! I live with Enjolras, right? On the first day of uni, he says he wants to start a human rights group. And I’m definitely up for that. So we start campaigning. Since there were only two of us, I said we needed to spread out. Then Enjolras meets Ferre and they start saving the world behind the scenes, you know how it is. Then we have the first meeting here, and it was a pretty good turnout actually.”

“Surprisingly good.”

“Then our eyes locked across the room.”

“Here we go.”

“And there he was. My soulmate. My other half. My one true love. My destiny. My knight in shining armour. My Disney prince. My hero. My dreamboat. My _life_.”

“He’s kidding.”

“I never kid. I’m always one hundred percent dead serious. How do you not know this about me yet?”

“R, you know the rest.”

“Ferre, you’re an awful storyteller. Are you gonna be like this when we have kids? ‘Rapunzel was locked in a tower. You know the rest’.”

“Courf, we’re both men. We can’t have kids.”

“Adopted kids.”

“We’ve only been dating for a few months!”

“So I felt my wrist start to burn. There, clear as a summer afternoon, was the name ‘Combeferre’. Combeferre! What a name! I was enamoured already.”

“Please stop.”

“So I ran up to him in gorgeous slow motion. It was beautiful. I could hear the choir singing!”

“All I had the chance to say was ‘Hi, I’m Combe-’ before he pounced on me.”

“Boom! Fireworks.”

“...Fireworks.”

And that was it. Their story wasn’t extraordinary in the slightest. Of _course_ Grantaire could see the appeal of it all. It’d been a happy story, but all he’d wanted to do was drink. He would never have that. Not that he deserved it.

Talking to Jehan had been an entirely different experience. They’d been sitting by the Seine and Grantaire had gotten so depressed during it that he had needed to gulp down the contents of his emergency stash just to avoid running away. Jehan’s monologue went on and on so that Grantaire was barely registering any of it, as Jehan recounted his days with his soulmate in excruciating detail, throwing in lines of poetry here and there as the inspiration struck him.

“...And then my soulmate died, which was terribly tragic, though I get to frequent his grave regularly and speak with many such mourners like myself, which is lovely-”

“Wait, what?”

Grantaire had been so tipsy by this point that he thought he’d misheard.

“Oh, yes,” Jehan had said. “It really was rather sad. He was in that horrific traffic collision that you will have heard about in the news, on the Périphérique in June 2012? Six soulbonded couples were broken in that accident. That’s how the news reported it, anyway.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It has been over a year, so I am quite well now. It gives me a delightful excuse to visit my favourite cemetery. It really was rather absurd that I was asked where he should be buried; I had only known him for a few days.”

A few days. Grantaire thought about how long Jehan had been talking for. He could _really_ wax poetic.

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“It made our time together all the more special, really. I will be able to mourn him forever.”

It turned out that this was why Jehan had joined the society. After he’d lost his soulmate, he’d been met with pitying looks wherever he went; people thought him doomed to be alone forever. Jehan however had started saying that he was sure he’d fall in love again. That had apparently gone down as well with the public as Grantaire had expected; he’d been abandoned by his friends and had become an easy target. There’d been a time that Jehan had been afraid to leave his parents’ house. The members of the Friends of the ABC not only understood him, but were on his side.

Bahorel was in a similar situation. He hadn’t intended on telling the story though, and Grantaire hadn’t particularly wanted to hear it. They’d been boxing at the gym, and Grantaire had noticed that Bahorel’s soulmate tattoo had become smudged as he’d sweated. Bahorel felt the need to explain himself, mid-fight, despite Grantaire assuring him that he didn’t care.

“Look, I met my soulmate, alright? I got my tattoo but I had this doctor dude laser it off. Cost me a right buck too. But don’t tell people right because it’s illegal and the dude would lose his job. So I meet her at law school one day. Yeah, I went to law school once, and it’s goddamn embarrassing, so shut up. We’re in the corridor and we soulbond and shit and yeah I’m excited for like a minute because she’s pretty fit, but then she opens her gob. And damn, she’s the most annoying bitch I’ve ever met. I talk to her for like five minutes and I can’t stand it. She’s a complete racist, a total dolt, and she laughs _all the damn time_. I’m convinced she’s hiding something because she just doesn’t stop giggling and it’s worse than nails on a chalkboard. So I walk away. I don’t have time for that shit. Like a week later I find her just sitting in my house. I call the cops to get a restraining order, but when they find out she’s my soulmate, of course that goes to shit. I move to Paris but she finds me again. She starts writing me letters and sending me photos and shit, so I go down every back alley to find someone to get rid of my tattoo, and hit the jackpot after a few weeks. She couldn’t prove she’s my soulmate after that, since we never registered or anything, and the Paris cops don’t know me, so I get my restraining order.”

Bahorel was saying all this while throwing punches at Grantaire. Grantaire hated that he had to be sober for the whole thing, but at least Bahorel’s fists were distracting.

“So I meet this girl at my new gym called Sabine, right. And her soulmate’s a right dick. He’d try to hit her and all this horrible shit because she’s got Tourette’s, which is why she taught herself to fight. And she’s a damn good fighter. The asshole doesn’t let her get a divorce, and lawyers don’t like giving them anyway when they’re soulmates, which shouldn’t mean jackshit and is another reason to fucking hate lawyers. So one day she beats the dude up so bad that he finally lets her go. Which is when I meet her. We spar a lot and then one day she beats me so I ask her out. So everything’s going awesome and my life’s the shit except for some tossers who think my life’s their business. Then they try and beat us up because they’re dipshits, and of course we crush them, but still, all the goddamn time people make comments and I just get sick of that shit. So I write her name on my wrist every goddamn morning because I love her and I want to love her without people sticking their snouts in every fucking five minutes.”

The only way Grantaire had known how to respond to that was to let Bahorel win.

Thankfully for Grantaire, everyone seemed content to let the topic go after they’d spilled him their stories. Chetta said it was an inclusion thing. Grantaire said he didn’t give a fuck as long as they shut up about it. Chetta just raised her eyebrow at him. Damn her. Grantaire often marvelled at how much of life he could spend hating his friends.

-

Christmas had been and gone, Éponine and Grantaire having spent it much as they always had done: trying not to set the kitchen on fire, and getting black-out drunk as Christmas movies played on the TV. The only differences were that this year they’d been able to do it in their shared kitchen in their dorm, and Éponine had kept sighing at her wrist. How had her soulmate been spending the day? Grantaire, as expected, had barely ever responded when she started rattling on about Marius, yet she’d found that she couldn’t stop herself.

Though, as January rolled round, Éponine was growing restless. What use was finding your soulmate if you couldn’t be with them? She’d stood in that courtyard as regularly as she could. Spotting him from a distance was difficult when she’d only seen his face, but she believed she’d recognise him when he showed up. It was destiny, right? Of course she’d know him.

Yet she hadn’t seen him at all. When classes had broken up for the holidays and Éponine had become permanently grouchy – though Grantaire claimed to not notice a difference – she figured that he’d probably gone home to a loving family, and she’d wait until the new year started to try to find him again.

He must’ve been searching for her too, right? So they’d _have_ to find each other – the university wasn’t _that_ big, surely?

She still had his wallet, not that it was any help. All it had in it was his student card – with a rather horrendous mug shot that Éponine detested, but she decided she rather liked his freckles – and some cash. Well, a _lot_ of cash. Éponine could only conclude that either her soulmate was _rich as shit_ or he had a real aversion to banks. Due to her parents, Éponine thought these were both equally plausible. It was a real testament to Éponine that she didn’t remove a single penny for herself. To start with, anyway. If she removed a bit of money here and there to pay for a top from a store that had high security, where was the harm in that? The money was her soulmate’s; they’d be married soon enough anyway. Shared property and all that.

Living life a bit more comfortably was little substitute for actually having her soulmate, though. It’d been weeks. Months, even. It was more than ridiculous; it was fucking stupid. It was hard for Éponine to not become somewhat despondent when her soulmate still didn’t appear, even after classes started again and she’d resumed her post in the courtyard.

While Grantaire never commented on Éponine’s grumpiness, simply listening and giving her a hug when she needed one, Gavroche wasn’t so patient. The two were having lunch outside the Notre-Dame cathedral, scouting for naïve tourists to potentially pickpocket, as was normal. Yet that day, Gavroche only lasted staying quiet for two minutes.

“Christ’s sake, get that goddamn bleedin’ heart expression off your face, I don’t wanna look at it anymore.”

“Git,” Éponine said, scowling at him. “It’s my right to be sad if I wanna be! I’m still looking for my soul-”

“Your soulmate, soulmate, soulmate, I get it,” Gavroche interrupted. “If I hear that stinking word out of yours or ‘Zelma’s mouths one more time, I’m gonna slap it out of your heads.”

“You can’t reach my head, short-ass,” Éponine said. “Not until you finally hit puberty and actually grow a few fucking inches.”

Gavroche simply flipped her off in response, as Éponine smirked.

“Where is ‘Zelma, anyway?” Éponine asked.

“Where do you think she is, dip-shit?” Gavroche said. “Where she always is.”

Éponine frowned as Gavroche nibbled at his sandwich.

“Are you at home on your own?” she asked.

“I don’t live at home anymore, you twat,” Gavroche said. “Keep up. For a uni swot, you sure are slow. They really would let anyone in these days.”

“Oi!” Éponine said, swatting at his arm. “Where do you live then?”

“Where I’ve lived for the past, like, three years?” he replied.

Gavroche hit Éponine back on the arm, yet she just gaped at him.

“You lived with _me_ for the past three years,” she said.

“No I didn’t,” he said. “I snuck out all the time. I was pretty much only there whenever there was food. I thought you knew, but you really must be thick.”

Éponine stared at him uselessly. Just, what the hell?

“You’re not serious,” she said, yet he didn’t respond. “Where do you actually live?”

“At my house,” he said, grinning at her innocently.

“Your house,” Éponine deadpanned.

“Yup. With my children.”

“Your children.”

“Yup.”

“You don’t have ‘children’.”

“Says you.”

“You’re not old enough to have kids. You haven’t even hit puberty yet.”

“Says you,” he replied, fixing his gaze on her. He shrugged. “I adopted them.”

“You’re a _teenager_.”

“Not on paper and shit, you idiot. Like, off-the-record adopted.”

“You’re not making a fucking scrap of sense.”

“Look,” Gavroche said. “These brats was homeless and starving, you could see their skulls through their skin, right? The mum met her soulmate while she was pregnant with the second poor fucker. So I found this house no one was using for us three to live in. The owner dude shot his wife or some crap like that. We live pretty comfy. All domestic like. The house has like fuck all in it but it’s a roof, you get me?”

“How’d I not notice?” Éponine asked, after a few moments.

“You’re an idiot. And you was always locked in your head anyhow, thinking about destiny and rainbows.”

Éponine put her sandwich down, no longer hungry. She scowled down at her hands; the way they were gripping each other seemed unfamiliar to her. Gavroche kept eating, not seeming to care when she didn’t say anything.

“You’ve been doing that for three years?” she eventually asked.

“Yup. I get away from our folks, so it’s win-win. I’m a great dad. Got them going to school and everything.”

“ _You_ don’t even go to school.”

“Of course I don’t, you fuckwit, I gotta provide for my kids. I gotta be out getting them food and clothes and shit like that.”

“Gav,” Éponine said, her voice softening. “You’re just a kid.”

“So what? I’m a damn better dad to them brats than anyone else was gonna be.”

Éponine was going to reply but she stopped herself, remembering the way her own parents had treated the kids they’d fostered. Fuck it all, she found herself smiling at her douchebag baby brother.

“Speaking of,” Gavroche said, standing up. “The rest of these here sandwiches are for them. And so is that poor fucker’s wallet. So long, sis.”

Gavroche grabbed both his own and Éponine’s leftovers, giving her a mock salute as he walked away, and headed straight towards a man who was battling with an oversized map of the city.

Éponine watched from a distance as Gavroche worked the tourist into such a state of confusion that he failed to notice Gavroche make off with both his wallet and his phone. She was watching so proudly that she nearly didn’t notice that Marius was walking in her direction.

She’d spent hours staring at his awful mug shot from his student card that it took her a few moments to properly register that he was there. She blinked slowly, before dashing towards him, cursing herself as her hands shook slightly.

“Marius!” she said, accidentally screeching his name and nearly barrelling straight into him.

Marius’ eyes widened at the sound as he stumbled idiotically and flapped his arms somewhat manically. He took a second to compose himself as Éponine grinned wildly at him.

“Um, hi?” he said.

Éponine stood and waited for him to say something. To take her in his arms. Kiss her. Anything. Yet he just stood there.

“You don’t seem happy to see me,” she said, frowning.

Marius looked at her warily and shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t know who you are?”

“It’s Éponine, remember? You bumped into me at the courtyard. At uni.”

“Oh,” Marius said. “Hello. Yes, sorry about that.”

They stood there in silence for a few moments again. Éponine was ridiculously confused. Had she done something wrong?

“Um,” Marius said, stepping away. “I should get going. Sorry again, I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Wait!” Éponine said, walking in step with Marius. “I haven’t seen you at the courtyard again since then. Did you change classes?”

“I, uh,” Marius said, looking uncomfortable. “I dropped out.”

“Why?” Éponine said.

“Well, um, I kinda got into a fight with my grandfather so he wasn’t funding me anymore, and I lost my wallet with all my money in it, so I was kinda broke. And I never really wanted to be a lawyer anyway.”

Marius shrugged, not looking at Éponine, his cheeks turning pink. Éponine frowned; Marius’ wallet felt like it was burning a hole in the back pocket of her jeans. The wallet that’d pretty much halved in size from when she’d first stolen it.

“You should’ve found me,” Éponine said. “I’d have helped you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marius said, shrugging. “I was only studying because my grandfather wanted me to.” Marius then frowned. “Why would you have helped me?”

Éponine stopped walking, and Marius did too. He looked her, confused.

“Because I’m your…” Éponine began.

Her scowl deepened as she waited for him to finish her sentence for her. Marius just looked even more confused. No recognition on his face at all.

Despite his startled protests, Éponine grabbed at Marius’ arm and pulled back his sleeve to look at his wrist. It was blank.

She did the same to his other arm. Nothing there.

Something ugly started to settle in her stomach.

“Oh, are you looking for my tattoo?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said, hope rising again.

“Don’t have one,” he said. “I know, I should’ve found my soulmate by now. I want to! I spend so much time just wandering around the city, hoping to find her, but I never do.”

Éponine pulled back her own sleeve. There, on her right wrist, was Marius’ name. Staring her in the face. Mocking her.

“That’s so funny,” Marius said, laughing. “Your soulmate has the same name as me!”

Éponine didn’t laugh. Marius looked uncomfortable again.

It was definitely him. It _had_ to be him. His name had appeared on her wrist after he’d bumped into her. The moment she’d pickpocketed him; the moment she’d first actually seen him. She hadn’t been looking at anyone else. She’d just been playing with her gloves. There was no one else it could’ve possibly been.

It was _his name_ on her wrist. Yet hers wasn’t on his. How?

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Marius said.

Éponine followed his gaze. Marius was looking over Éponine’s shoulder, at something across the street. There were a lot of people around, so Éponine couldn’t be sure who he was talking about. But she would’ve been willing to bet money that it was the pretty blonde in the fitted lavender coat.

The blonde then glanced up at Marius. Marius gazed at her, started to mumble something incoherent, before he yelped.

“Oh! Oh! It’s here!”

Marius raised his wrist before his eyes. Éponine watched in horror as black inked letters began to spell out a name on Marius’ wrist. Éponine shot her stare back over at the blonde, who was, sickeningly, looking down at her wrist.

What _the hell_ was going on? Marius was _her_ soulmate. Éponine had soulbonded onto him. Yet here Marius was, soulbonding with someone else.

“What the hell?” Éponine shouted.

Marius didn’t seem to hear her. Before Éponine could blink, Marius had crossed the street and charged straight over to the pretty blonde. Éponine instinctively ran after him. She didn’t know _why,_ she just needed answers. Éponine had fallen behind Marius, but that didn’t matter, because he was shouting.

“MY NAME IS MARIUS PONTMERCY,” he yelled.

Éponine reached them then. Marius was completely red, as he had been when he’d first met Éponine, yet this time an enormous smile was stretched happily across his face. He didn’t look awkward or uncomfortable at all; he looked elated. Éponine felt the difference like a knife in her gut.

Éponine hated the girl instantly. Her hair was so long that there was no way it was practical. It was all golden and wavy and just too perfect. She was pale enough to look sickly, in contrast to Éponine’s darker skin. Her eyes were too big for her face. Doe-eyed, except Éponine didn’t find it cute. Her mouth was too big too. She looked like she would be stupid. She was skinny, drop-dead gorgeous, and Éponine loathed her.

Her looks were nothing compared to her expression though. She was smiling like it was her birthday, Christmas, Easter, and every other damn holiday Éponine could think of, all at once. The way her eyes were shining made them look even bigger. Éponine wondered if her eyes would keep shining like that if she was punched in the face.

Marius had pulled his sleeve up so he could wave his wrist erratically in the girl’s face, shouting something incoherent.

“Breathe,” the girl said softly, smiling.

Éponine thought that was so obnoxious. Already telling him what to do. Who the hell did she think she was?

Annoyingly, Marius started taking deep breaths. He never took his eyes off the girl once.

Everything was shit.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The girl smiled wider – Éponine wondered how much wider her smile could get before her mouth got too big and just fell off her face.

“I’m-” she began.

“COSETTE,” someone shouted.

The girl stopped and spun around, breaking eye contact with Marius for the first time. A much older man with grey hair ran up to the girl, panting slightly.

“Cosette, we must go!”

“But, Papa-”

“We must run!”

The man grasped the girl’s hand tight and ran into the crowd, pulling her behind him. She looked back at Marius and tried to shout something to him, but whatever she said was lost in the noise of the crowd.

Only then did it dawn on Éponine. She’d hated those doe eyes before. Cosette, the girl her parents had fostered so long ago. Cinderella had not only found a Prince Charming in the form of a dad who actually loved her, but she’d taken Éponine’s prince too. Éponine instantly felt herself again become that young girl. The ugly step-sister. Small.

Éponine reluctantly looked over at Marius, expecting to see him jubilant. Yet he looked completely devastated. His smile was gone and he was just staring down at his wrist. Despite herself, Éponine found herself reaching out to him.

“You’ll find her again,” she said, voice timid.

Marius didn’t look at her. He clenched his hand into a fist as he stared at his tattoo. There was no conviction in the action though; the fist deflated as quickly as it’d been formed. When he spoke, his voice was as small as Éponine’s had been.

“It wasn’t her,” he said.

Éponine frowned and looked at Marius’ wrist. The name ‘Cosette’ wasn’t there. It instead said ‘Euphrasie’. Éponine remembered then that Cosette had never liked to be known by her real name. Cosette _was_ Marius’ soulmate. But damn Éponine if she’d tell him that, though. He’d figure it out soon enough. Éponine wasn’t going to help him.

“How could I have gotten it so wrong?” Marius asked.

Éponine looked down at her own wrist again. There his name still was. And there on his wrist was someone else’s. It didn’t make any sense. This morning, Éponine had a soulmate. Now, she didn’t know what she had.

You tell me, Marius, Éponine thought. You tell me.

-

Éponine felt exhausted. Her head was pounding; she felt like she’d just sat through three back-to-back exams that she’d probably failed. All she could do was keep replaying the entire afternoon round and round in her head like a broken record, skipping and catching every few seconds.

She didn’t even have the energy to be angry. Or to be sad. All she wanted to do was sleep and pretend it’d never happened. Maybe it hadn’t. Éponine began to hope it was a nightmare, but she knew what nightmares felt like. And Éponine knew what reality felt like. When you were asleep, even if the dream was nonsensical, you somehow always seemed to know what was going on. This was too specific to be a nightmare, too confusing for her to be asleep, and too cutting to be anything but real.

Éponine and Grantaire’s dorm was tiny. They’d managed to convince the housing officer on campus to let them have one of the few two-people dorms, which were usually snatched up by couples. They had a tiny bathroom, a tiny shared bedroom, and a tiny living-room-and-kitchen hybrid. The carpet was rough and prickly, but it was green, which had delighted Grantaire for reasons Éponine couldn’t fathom. She’d just decided it was the alcohol talking. The place was dingy and stained as neither of them liked to clean and tended to dump their stuff over the floor. A dull orange cushy sofa sat in the middle of the living area, pointed at a TV. Grantaire had just appeared with it in the back of a van one day, and they’d gleefully abandoned the scratchy supplied sofa onto the street. Grantaire said he didn’t remember where either the sofa or the van had come from. It wasn’t unusual for him.

The sofa was all Éponine had the energy to care about in that moment. She threw herself onto it, sighing as she sank down into the cushions, and curled up into a ball. She turned the volume up on the TV louder and louder, to try to drown out the noise in her head.

Only when the volume was nearly deafening was she able to fall asleep.

Éponine was startled awake a few hours later by a loud door slam and a shout of “WHAT THE HELL?” She woke up groggy and irritated, only realising a few moments later that Grantaire had come home and was continuing to shout obscenities about how loud it was. She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake the sleep out of her, before turning the TV off.

Her body creaked in protest as she dragged herself to sit up, Grantaire plopping down beside her. She instinctively put her feet into his lap. He stank of beer, yet he didn’t seem _completely_ drunk, which Éponine was pleased about. He launched immediately into recounting how his night had again ended in Bossuet disappearing through a manhole in the road. Éponine was barely even listening, but liked the noise of his rambling.

Grantaire had to tap her on the knee before she noticed he’d been asking her something.

“You okay?” he asked.

Éponine wanted to lie. She wanted to tell the truth. She wanted to cry into his shoulder and ask him to make it all better. She wanted him to never know anything. The confusion of it all was enough to bring her headache back.

“I found Marius today,” she said.

“Good,” Grantaire said. “That’s great, Ép! I’m really happy for you.”

He took Éponine’s hand and squeezed it, smiling. His face looked like he nearly believed what he said, like he was trying to make it true. Éponine thought that he did mean it. It was just the damn topic. Soulmates always opened some sort of floodgate in Grantaire’s brain, and Éponine knew to never take offence about it.

“Don’t be,” she said, voice breaking slightly.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at her, and Éponine fought to keep her nerve. Just get it over with, she told herself.

“Marius,” she said. “He, uh, met... he isn’t... he... he loves someone else.”

Well, it was partially true. Éponine knew that Marius was completely besotted, by seeing the look on his face. Love at first sight, of all the clichés. But Éponine also knew that ‘he loves someone else’ and ‘he’s soulbonded with someone else’ were completely different sentences.

“Fuck,” Grantaire said.

Grantaire’s face had completely broken. His eyebrows and forehead furrowed as his eyes shone, big and sad. He bit his lip as he tightened his grip on Éponine’s hand. If Grantaire looked that depressed about it, Éponine wondered how she must’ve looked. An ugly sight, she bet.

Grantaire let go of her hand to hold his arms out instead for her to crawl into, which she did.

“I’m so sorry, Ép. I know how much you wanted all this. He’ll wise up soon. You deserve to be happy.”

As Éponine pressed her face against Grantaire’s chest, she thought she did deserve it. But life had never been fair, and it always mocked Éponine at every turn. Yet as Grantaire wrapped his arms tight around her, even though the stench of beer filled her nostrils, she couldn’t help but feel a little more relaxed.

She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t told the whole truth. Maybe it was because she didn’t know what the truth was. To say that Marius had soulbonded with someone else was to expose herself as... she didn’t know what. What the hell was she? She knew she needed to find out, but for that moment, she was content just to sleep.

-

“I found my soulmate today!” Feuilly announced, as he stormed into the Corinthe.

Grantaire put his face in his hands and groaned. Soulmates, all the fucking time. Time to hit the bottle. He headed over to the bar, but completely deflated as he remembered that Feuilly was the barman on duty tonight, and obviously wouldn’t be serving drinks anytime soon. Grantaire hated his life.

Grantaire reluctantly returned to his seat and pulled his sketchbook out of his bag just to have something else to focus on. He skipped past his doodles of JMB as various animals, to a sketch he’d been doing to cheer Éponine up: it was of her taming and riding a dragon into battle, with Montparnasse’s severed body parts hanging off its scales. She’d eat it up.

He’d been coming to these meetings for months now, so everyone was pretty familiar with his dislike of talking about soulbonding. He survived getting into debates about them with Enjolras, because they both got to get pissed off about the subject. Though, granted, they were always pissed off for different reasons, depending on what perspective Grantaire decided to take that day. So, his sitting apart from the rest of them was normal now.

He tried to ignore everyone but inevitably ending up getting the gist of Feuilly’s story anyway. Feuilly did some volunteering at a shelter or something – Grantaire had given up keeping track of Feuilly’s jobs – and he’d soulbonded while he was there. The problem was that he’d been looking out at a room full of people when it’d happened, so he had no idea who it was.

Grantaire hated the irony. He sometimes wondered whether Enjolras had ever bothered to think about whom in that room he’d bonded with that day; he probably hadn’t.

Feuilly had a name, but he didn’t know how to pronounce it because it was written in what he thought were Chinese characters. Basically he had no idea who to approach and couldn’t shout out a name. Essentially, Feuilly was fucked.

Grantaire was sympathetic; he really was. Actually, not in the slightest. How many Chinese people were there in that shelter in Paris? Grantaire bet that Feuilly would find his ‘happy ending’ soon enough. The rest of the room seemed to think the same, but decided that every person needed to express that out loud and then they’d all discuss it in pointless detail.

Oh god. Just, why.

Grantaire needed some air. Since the room that the Corinthe let them use was upstairs, there was an outdoor balcony that Grantaire had always felt was a godsend. He instinctively shivered as he stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Winter was on the way out, but it was still fucking cold. He pulled on the woolly green fingerless gloves that Éponine had gotten him for Christmas. He’d never understood her fascination with them, but they were good for sketching anyway. He leant his elbows onto the balcony railing, watching his breath come out in white puffs.

He could only see the streets below where the light from the streetlamps fell. People seemed to appear and disappear into the dark, trying to get from warm place to warm place. It was cold enough that Grantaire could feel the chill of the metal railing through his coat sleeves. He started taking deliberately deep breaths, to see how large a cloud he could make when he exhaled. Not that he could measure them, so he’d never actually know. Grantaire liked pointless games like that. The more unproductive, the better.

Grantaire started as he heard the door open behind him.

“I’m not coming back in until they’re all done gossiping,” Grantaire said.

“Good. Me neither.”

Oh god. No. Just, no. Absolutely not.

Grantaire hated his life.

Enjolras came to lean beside him, clasping his gloved hands together and looking out at the night. He was wearing a red coat that fit him far too well. Damn him.

All Grantaire had wanted was some peace. Really, the nerve of some people.

What made it worse was that Grantaire was actually excited. Well, his stomach was, as it was currently doing somersaults and making him feel a bit ill. He wanted to tell his stomach that Enjolras being there wasn’t a good thing. It didn’t understand.

His mouth had gone dry, so he felt that was a valid excuse to not say anything. The fact of it was that Grantaire had never been alone with Enjolras, and he’d never said anything to him that wasn’t antagonising. He’d never been this close to him before either. If Grantaire moved his elbow a few centimetres to the right, they’d be touching. Fuck, that wasn’t a good thought.

“I just,” Enjolras said, sighing.

Grantaire hated that he turned to look at him. He hated that he was drawn to Enjolras. Grantaire knew it made sense – nothing in his life had made more sense, really – but he still wished it didn’t happen. It made everything so much harder.

“I just need to get away from it sometimes,” Enjolras said. “Not hear about it.”

Of course; Enjolras was abstaining from finding out who his soulmate was. Maybe that was hard. Yet he’d never really thought of Enjolras like that before: as needing space, or being troubled. It was human. Normal. Grantaire remembered that moment during the rally, when he’d seen Enjolras instinctively throw his fist in the air and smile. He’d been human then too.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “Yeah. I get that too.”

Enjolras turned to Grantaire and gave him a small, tired smile. Don’t smile, Grantaire thought. But Grantaire smiled back, of course he did. That made Enjolras’ smile get even brighter. Fuck that. Grantaire’s stomach was in hysterics.

“We’ve never really, uh, talked,” Enjolras said.

“Oh, we’ve talked _plenty_ ,” Grantaire said, snorting.

Enjolras laughed. Oh god. Don’t do that. Grantaire had heard that laugh before, but never this close. Never for him.

“No, I mean,” Enjolras said. “That, uh... you know what I mean.”

Grantaire knew. Then again, Grantaire was never one for making anything easy for people. Even if said people were bonded to him for life.

“No, actually, I don’t. Please enlighten me, my liege.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Grantaire just grinned, and waited. Enjolras seemed to get a little frustrated. Good. Frustration, Grantaire could deal with. What Grantaire had a harder time dealing with was that frustration looked a hell of a lot cuter on Enjolras’ face than a glare did. Especially when that face was this close. No.

“I mean, we haven’t talked, uh, when we’re not... arguing, I guess,” Enjolras said.

“When I’m not finding the flaws in all of your arguments, you mean.”

“Yes, that.”

“True.”

“So, hi,” Enjolras said.

“Hi?”

Enjolras looked completely serious, so Grantaire laughed. Grantaire then raised his eyebrows as Enjolras unnecessarily gripped his hand on the railing, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it again. Grantaire had seen Enjolras struggling to find words before, but never looking this perplexed.

“I, uh, noticed that you like green,” Enjolras said.

Whatever Grantaire had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

“And you like red?” Grantaire said, teasingly.

“Why green?” Enjolras asked. “And yeah, I do.”

What. What _the fuck_ was happening? Was Enjolras _really_ asking him about his favourite colour? Enjolras seemed uncertain himself, but was following through with the same dogged determination that Grantaire was used to. At least _something_ was making sense.

“Because I keep hoping people will think I’m Irish and buy me drinks.”

Enjolras looked at him sceptically, not releasing his grip on the railing.

“You’re messing with me,” he said slowly.

“I’m always serious,” Grantaire said, grinning.

Watching the frown slowly break into a smile on Enjolras’ face was gorgeous. All this time Grantaire had been receiving scowls, he could’ve been looking at this. No. He couldn’t have been. None of this was making any sense.

“What about you and red?” Grantaire asked, playing along. “Is it so you can imagine yourself covered in the blood of your enemies?”

Enjolras’ cheeks turned pink before he laughed. Again. Two laughs. What was happening? This was the most banal topic in the world – were they in nursery school? It was Enjolras’ own fault. He started it. Or rather, that Grantaire had no idea what else to say.

Enjolras’ smile turned into a thoughtful expression, frowning slightly. Then the grin came back.

“Kind of, yes.”

That startled a laugh out of Grantaire. Enjolras grinned wider; the smug bastard. Enjolras then opened his mouth and shut it again. He frowned down at the street below in silence. Grantaire wondered whether he was supposed to wait for Enjolras to spit it out, or say something himself. Either way, Grantaire kept quiet and held onto the confusion because it was the only thing keeping him from panicking.

“Sorry,” Enjolras finally said. “I’m not very good at... all this.”

“At all what?”

Enjolras turned to meet Grantaire’s eyes, holding the contact for a moment and then dropping his gaze again. Whatever Enjolras wanted to say seemed to keep falling away from him, which was something Grantaire was familiar with. Grantaire usually abandoned it and said complete bullshit instead, while Enjolras seemed to still be holding onto it.

“You know,” Enjolras said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Talking to people.”

And just, what. That didn’t make any sense.

“All you ever do is talk to people,” Grantaire said. “Well, not all you ever do. But you do a damn lot of it.”

“That’s different. That’s talking at people. About important issues. I’m not good at _conversing_ with people. At, uh, being me.”

“When are you not ‘you’?” Grantaire asked helplessly.

“When I’m making speeches. I mean, I’m _me_ , but I’m not really me.”

Enjolras was biting his lip. What the _fuck_ was going on here? Grantaire couldn’t keep up. He tried to connect the dots in his brain. Enjolras’ shoulders were tensed as he leaned towards Grantaire, looking at him intently. There was something nearly hopeful in his expression, as if he was willing Grantaire into filling in the blanks. As if he _needed_ him to.

Grantaire smiled as it slowly clicked, tapping his finger on the railing. Enjolras swallowed heavily as he watched the movement. Enjolras’ eyes then darted back to meet Grantaire’s, his lips slightly parted as if his throat was dry, and Grantaire got it. If there was one thing Grantaire understood, it was obscuring yourself when trying to make a point. Enjolras’ way of doing it just had a lot more passion than Grantaire would ever bother to attempt.

“Damn,” Grantaire said. “You’re socially awkward, aren’t you?”

“Let’s go for ‘shy’,” Enjolras said, exhaling deeply.

Grantaire tried to not get excited about Enjolras using the word ‘let’s’. He failed. He also failed to be intrigued about that Enjolras’ shoulders had completely relaxed and he was nearly _smiling_.

“Fuck,” Grantaire said.

“Can we please not focus on it?”

“You’re the one who brought it up!” Grantaire said, laughing.

“Yes, but to apologise!”

“You don’t need to apologise. Ever.”

Enjolras paused, frowning. “I’d have thought you’d think I’d have to apologise all the time.”

Oh. Because Grantaire was always arguing with him. Right.

“Aren’t I always wrong?” Enjolras asked.

“No,” Grantaire said, too quickly. Damn.

“You always tell me I’m wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean you are.”

“So I’m right?”

“Nope.”

“So am I wrong or am I right?”

Grantaire met Enjolras’ eyes, and swallowed. Enjolras was back in his stride, but Grantaire had now fallen behind. He could see that determination again in Enjolras that he so knew so well, and was as entrancing as it ever had been. Grantaire didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what he _wanted_ to do.

“You’re wrong in relative to being right,” he said.

“...I don’t understand.”

“Yeah. Me neither.”

“Grantaire?”

Fuck. Grantaire should not have liked the way Enjolras’ voice sounded when saying his name. Enjolras’ eyes were wide and intent, gazing at Grantaire as if searching for something. Grantaire hoped he didn’t find whatever it was.

“Nothing’s ever that clear cut,” Grantaire said. “There _is_ no ‘wrong’ or ‘right’.”

Enjolras hesitated. His eyes darted to Grantaire, then to his hands, and back again. He was fidgeting, changing the position of his fingers every couple of seconds.

“What do you think?” Enjolras asked. “Of, um, me? ...Of what we’re doing?”

Grantaire was completely thrown off. He’d spent months arguing with this godlike man, week in week out, seeing him as infallible. On a higher tier, not to be seen or touched. Yet this Enjolras was completely different. Enjolras, human. Enjolras, vulnerable. Enjolras, _socially awkward_. It made absolutely no sense.

Yet here Enjolras was. Grantaire had never seen him look so small. Enjolras was looking at him as if Grantaire’s next words would mean something. As if Grantaire could somehow make him happy, or somehow hurt him. It was ridiculous. Five minutes earlier, Grantaire never would’ve thought that possible.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Grantaire should leave. Go back into the Corinthe and walk away. No good could come of this. But he couldn’t move. He also knew he couldn’t lie. Not when Enjolras was looking at him like that. What the fuck could he say?

“I...” Grantaire said, taking a deep breath. “I want you to be right. I think you _are_ wasting your time, because humanity is shit. I don’t think they’ll change, and I don’t think they care. But if anyone can get them to, it’s you.”

Well. No taking it back now. Grantaire didn’t want to see the look on Enjolras’ face. Grantaire gripped the railing as if it was a lifeline. He thought about running. Half of him screamed for Enjolras to say something, and the other wanted to never hear another word.

“That’s good enough for me,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and faced Enjolras again. Enjolras was smiling at him. He had to stop doing that.

“I like you like this,” Enjolras said.

“I like you when you’re not being an idiot.”

“No. Don’t. I mean it.”

Grantaire was about a hundred percent certain he didn’t want to play this game.

“You like me like what? Sober?” Grantaire asked.

“No. Less... I don’t know. Closed off.”

“You think _I’m_ closed off?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, then frowned. “Well, no. I mean. Less closed off with _me_.”

Oh. _Oh._ Grantaire had spent so much time trying to ignore Enjolras while looking at what he was like with other people that he hadn’t once realised that Enjolras could just as easily be watching the way Grantaire was with the rest of the group. Much friendlier, for a start. Oops.

“I mean, I thought you hated me,” Enjolras said.

Oh god, he was still talking. Pay attention, Grantaire.

“Which, you know, would have been up to you, but you’ve been talking to me tonight and you could’ve just gone back inside...”

Yes. He _could_ have gone back inside. Why hadn’t he? _Why?_

“I don’t hate you,” Grantaire said.

“Good.”

“Why’s that good?”

“Because I don’t hate you either.”

This was not good. This was so very very not good. But one of Grantaire’s problems had always been never knowing when to shut up.

“You should hate me,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because. I argue with everything you say.”

“You express opinions. So do I. That’s no reason to hate you.”

“There’s no fucking way you’re actually _this_ understanding.”

“I’m not at all understanding,” Enjolras said. “I’m extremely judgemental.”

“Not right now you’re not!”

“Grantaire. I can’t stand people who blindly follow rules. Or people who defend injustice.”

“I defended injustice yesterday.”

“But there, that’s the difference. You knew that what you were defending was injustice. Other people wouldn’t.”

“So I’m not actually shit because I _know_ I’m being shit?”

“No. The difference is that I know you don’t actually believe any of your own arguments. What you say changes every day, so you’re doing it just to argue with me. I’m not going to pretend to understand why. But I like debating too. It makes my arguments stronger.”

“It makes your arguments stronger.”

“Yes.”

Grantaire didn’t know how to deal with this. This was ridiculous. Grantaire was ridiculous. Enjolras was ridiculous. And that was something Grantaire thought Enjolras would never be. Grantaire didn’t know how to think anymore. His brain had just given up.

“So why do you, uh, avoid me?” Enjolras asked.

Enjolras swallowed heavily and went back to gripping the railing.

“Because you’re perfect.”

“I’m sorry?”

Damn. Grantaire really needed his brain to work in order to stop him saying crap like that.

“I thought you were perfect,” Grantaire said.

He’d already said it. May as well throw himself into the pit headfirst. Enjolras went silent then, frowning. It’d gotten colder, so Grantaire stuffed his hands into his pockets. The bustling people in the street below had been replaced by the drunk, shouting and singing their way down the cobbles.

“Grantaire, I’m far from perfect. I can barely hold a single conversation without accidentally offending anyone. I never know the right thing to say. My memory is horrendous. I constantly forget where I’m supposed to be, or go. I have to ad-lib my speeches because I just can’t learn them off. I barely graduated school. I still can’t tell my left from my right without making that ‘L’ shape with my hand.”

“Fuck off.”

“Um.”

This was fucking stupid. Grantaire couldn’t comprehend anything anymore. His entire world view was crumbling around him.

“So why _do_ you like green?” Enjolras asked.

“That again? Really?”

“Yes.”

This was good. Something Grantaire could focus on. When in doubt, ramble, until you’ve forgotten what the problem was in the first place. If Enjolras wanted to hear about green, he would damn _hear_ about green. Grantaire loved to talk. But more than just talk. He loved to bullshit talk about art.

“It’s because green is frustrating as hell to paint with,” Grantaire said. “You can’t just buy it; bought greens are useless. You’ve got to mix it yourself, and it’s always so fucking hard. And green’s _everywhere_. Trees, grass, Kermit the Frog, everywhere. You couldn’t escape using the colour if you tried. Picasso said that ‘they will sell you thousands of greens: Veronese green and emerald green and cadmium green and any sort of green you like, but that particular green, never’. You’ll be looking at a leaf, right, and the green on your palette will never exactly match. You’ll spend hours just trying. You could waste your entire life away, just saying, ‘I’m nearly there’. Just a bit more blue, a bit more yellow. But your painting will never look exactly like what you’re looking at because the most basic part of it is wrong: the colour. It’s hell. Then before you know it, some arrogant asshole has finished off a crap version of the painting you were trying to do, using his tube greens that are hideous as fuck, and you’ve got no choice but to scrap yours anyway. So, you’ve got to settle, or die trying.”

“You’re worth more than settling.”

No. There was no fucking way that Enjolras had actually seen through the bullshit. There was no fucking way that Grantaire had accidentally revealed all that about himself. He hadn’t meant to. Fuck. Enjolras couldn’t have gotten there from that. There was no way. No. Fucking. Way.

“I’m really not, you know,” Grantaire eventually said.

“You’ll see,” Enjolras said, teasingly.

Enjolras gave him a soft smile. Fuck. Too soft. Far too soft. Grantaire smiled back. Stupid.

Enjolras looked down at the street again, before walking back inside.

There was no fucking way _any_ of that had just happened.

It had.

Grantaire was so fucked.

-

Useless. Absolutely fucking useless. Éponine let out a snarl of frustration as she sank her head onto the table. She heard a huff from some bookworm next to her. Éponine knew she was supposed to be quiet in the library, but she didn’t care; she’d been growling and sighing for the past hour.

It was unreal. Éponine had been studying about soulmates for over half her life, and never once had she heard of ‘soulbonding gone wrong’. Books she’d sworn by for years had nothing. New books in this library had nothing. Academic journals, medical journals, media articles. Not even a conspiracy theory. Zilch.

It was all right there in print. It wasn’t biologically possible to soulbond on your own; it was a connection between two people. It was completely absurd for Éponine to somehow have managed it, and everything she read only further proved that.

What the hell had happened to her? And more importantly, what the hell was she? Something inside her must have been severely fucked up. That was the only conclusion Éponine could come to.

She’d been to a doctor the previous day. She didn’t want to admit what was wrong with her, so she’d just asked for a general check-up. Apart from her blood pressure being a little high, there was absolutely nothing physically wrong with her.

She groaned as she heaved herself out of her chair, tossing the worthless books onto a random shelf with more force than necessary. She spotted a few glares pointed at her as she stormed out.

As she headed back to her dorm, she passed the local church, its sign today declaring something about thanking God for designing for us each the perfect partner. Éponine laughed bitterly at the irony. She usually paid little mind to this church, but today she stopped. It couldn’t hurt to try, right?

The church was small and humble. Éponine hadn’t been in many churches before; she’d only really been in cathedrals on school trips, which had always been grand and huge, and scared her. This church seemed like any other hall. The walls were whitewashed and the ceiling was slanted. Instead of rows upon rows of wooden pews, there were just standard chairs like she’d find in a classroom. There was a table at the front – was it called an altar? – and a random wooden thing that Éponine guessed men talked at. She was expecting a bit more glitz and glam, really. Éponine couldn’t bring herself to care enough to be disappointed.

There were a few people dotted around. Some people were sitting alone and praying, while a couple were talking quietly near the back. None of them looked like the leaders though; they just seemed like normal people.

Éponine was considering leaving before a man approached her. He had white hair that was thinning, and was smiling gently at her. It was the smile that made her stand still.

“Hello,” the man said.

“Um, hi,” Éponine said. “I was looking for the dude in charge.”

“God?” the man said, then laughed.

Éponine blinked at him. “No, like, the person. Human. This building.”

“I know what you mean,” the man said. “That would be me.”

Éponine looked the man up and down sceptically. He was just wearing jeans and a button-up shirt. To her annoyance, the man laughed again.

“I was actually looking for the dudes who wear, you know, the white dresses.”

“I believe you are thinking of Catholics,” the man said. “We are Protestant. Is there anything I can help with?”

Éponine paused, looking at him again.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “The person I really need to talk to is the Pope.”

“The Pope! Well, I’m afraid he might be quite difficult for us to contact from Paris.”

“Fuck,” Éponine said, earning her glares from the people talking at the back.

“I am sorry,” the man said, still smiling. “If there is anything that I can do for you, my name is Myriel.”

“Uh, Éponine.”

The man nodded at her and went to walk away.

“Wait! Uh, can I talk to you? Like, in private,” Éponine called after him.

Myriel’s face lit up. Éponine thought that was weird. He led her to a door at the back of the hall, which opened into a small room with just two chairs in it.

The second Éponine sat down, she launched into telling her story, keen to get it fully off her chest. Myriel patiently listened, his brow furrowing in confusion. He listened so intently that Éponine talked far more than she’d meant to, spilling unnecessary details about Marius, Cosette and herself to this man she didn’t know. It dawned on her then that this man was the first person to learn about her secret, which Éponine found ridiculous, but it was too much of a relief for her to regret it. She kept showing him her wrist and found herself talking more at it than at Myriel.

“So, uh,” Éponine said, once she’d finished. “Like, have you ever heard of this before? Is it in the Bible or anything? Is there anything I can do?”

Myriel’s frown had deepened and he was silent for a long time. Éponine started to become edgy. Myriel eventually sighed.

“No,” he said. “I have never heard of it.”

Éponine didn’t bother trying to hide her disappointment. She was completely out of ideas. The doctors had nothing, the scientists had nothing, and now the Church had nothing. Myriel looked at Éponine with sadness in his eyes. Éponine didn’t like sympathy, though part of her felt she’d earned it.

“Our lives are rife with confusion,” Myriel said. “Things happen that we cannot explain. People suffer and people die. Sometimes our bodies are born different. It doesn’t mean that we’re broken, or that there is anything wrong with us. We are just different to other people.”

“I _am_ broken, though,” Éponine said.

“No, I do not believe that. Look at you!” Myriel gestured at Éponine. “You are a healthy and clever young woman. Your soulbond is broken; you are not broken.”

“So,” Éponine said. “The system broke with me.”

“No system is perfect; each of them has errors.”

“So, I’m a glitch in the system.”

“I did not say that,” Myriel said. “I said that the system has had an error, which has unfortunately fallen on you. You simply cannot yet be explained.”

“But until I can ‘be explained’, I’m a glitch.”

“That is not what I am saying, but if that is what you want to call it, then yes.”

Éponine nodded, and made to leave. Myriel stood up to follow her.

“I am sorry that I could not be more help,” he said. “Please return if I can ever be of any assistance to you, and I will pray that you find the answers you seek.”

Éponine tried to smile at him as she left. She just wanted to go home.

Glitch. That was what she wanted to call it. It was useless, but she was desperate to take anything she could get, even if it meant calling herself a ‘glitch’. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything really. Yet somehow, it comforted her. And made it seem all the more real. She knew she had to face reality now; whatever she was, she was it, and denying it was pointless.

-

Grantaire was good at hating people. No, Grantaire was _excellent_ at it. Éponine knew this, and it was one of the reasons she loved having him as her best friend. Grantaire hated people in general, sometimes coming across a few that he didn’t. Whereas Éponine didn’t hate people, but she often came across people in life that she hated. So when Éponine hated someone, it was usually a good bet that Grantaire would hate them too. Or he could at least act like he did.

This was one of those occasions. Grantaire had never met Cosette, or Marius, but it didn’t matter. He knew how to play the part. Sometimes, in the hurling of insults, Éponine would forget completely that Grantaire didn’t actually know them because he could join in so enthusiastically. Éponine knew that it was all for her benefit, of course, but she did nothing to dissuade him. It was a messed up way of making her happy, but it worked for her.

Sometimes this would be in the form of tirades. Éponine would start ranting and then Grantaire would join in. Whenever the rage was fresh, there would usually be a few of these. More often though was that Grantaire would throw in an insult when Éponine was looking sad, guessing what it was about.

Marius and Cosette were prime cases of this. This rage, for Éponine, was quieter than usual. It mostly made her sad, and confused. Less throwing things, more moping.

So, when Éponine wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa and nestled up next to Grantaire, nursing a beer and probably looking a little pathetic, she wasn’t surprised that he tried to help.

“You said she looked like a deer, right?” Grantaire said.

“Doe eyes, yeah,” Éponine replied.

“Well, you know what happens to deer. They get shot.”

That thought kept Éponine happy for the rest of the day.

That was another thing Grantaire was good at: noticing when someone was sad. Éponine had always been bad at it. She’d always owned up to caring more about herself than other people; that wasn’t a secret. Grantaire, though. Éponine sometimes thought that she’d like to care about other people the way Grantaire did. When Éponine asked him about it though, he’d often babble some sort of mythology crap at her until she got bored enough to forget what she’d asked. Sometimes she’d clock on that he was doing it deliberately and accuse him of some sort of jedi mind trick, which he’d just laugh at. The only time she’d been able to get a response from him that’d made even the slightest sense, they’d both been in the relaxed state of drunk – or, ‘the pussycat’, as he called it – and Grantaire’d had his head in Éponine’s lap while she’d stroked his hair.

“Like seeks like, you know? Misery loves company, shit. I know when someone’s sad because I’m sad. And their sad is more important than my sad, because I’m always sad.”

“But, you never seem sad,” Éponine had replied. “You seem lots of things, like pissed off or stressed and shit. But not ‘sad’. Like, you never cry or anything. I cry when I’m sad.”

“And that’s the saddest thing about me,” Grantaire had slurred.

Grantaire had forgotten the entire night, let alone remembering any of the conversation. Éponine wasn’t sure she really understood what he’d said. Well, she knew that she didn’t understand it. She’d technically gotten the insight she’d wanted, not that it was any use to her. She couldn’t learn how to care about other people from _that_. She figured it was the best answer she was ever going to get though, so she stopped asking. She stayed content thinking that she was what she was, and Grantaire was what he was, and that was that.

When she was angry, she could rely on Grantaire, and when she was sad, she could rely on Grantaire. People had always complained that Grantaire was unreliable; he never did what he said he would or showed up when he was supposed to, but Éponine had never been able to rely on someone more fully in her life.

The whole situation sucked. She had a soulmate that wasn’t her soulmate who had a soulmate. She was a glitch. It made her head spin. Yet she tried to make the best of it that she could. Which meant mocking and insulting the ones she could pin the blame on.

Éponine’s favourite thing about it all, her silver lining, was Grantaire. No, that was her second favourite thing. Her actual favourite thing was that she still had Marius’ wallet.

Éponine’s wardrobe had never looked so good, and she and Grantaire had never drunk such fantastic tasting alcohol in their lives. Éponine found something oddly satisfying about actually paying for something rather than sneaking it out. She didn’t bother resisting the temptation to grin broadly at every shop assistant who’d ever been suspicious of her. Yet, as she snuggled up against Grantaire on the sofa, she couldn’t help feeling that now all-too-familiar dull ache in the pit of her stomach. Empty beer cans were scattered across the carpet, but the alcohol had done nothing to calm her mind. The fact of it was: you only ever got one soulmate. Éponine had hers. She was never going to soulbond with anyone.

She was resting her chin up against Grantaire’s shoulder, with her arms loosely thrown around his waist. As a lump began to rise in her throat, she instinctively tightened her grip on Grantaire, which startled a laugh out of him. Éponine tried to focus on the programme Grantaire was watching, but she couldn’t concentrate. It was some documentary about some dead guy Éponine didn’t give a shit about. Maybe she needed to get _really_ drunk.

She just started to get up when Grantaire put a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place. He muted the TV and turned to face her, prompting her to release her grip on him.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Éponine said.

“You’re completely restless. And I’ve been watching this documentary about Alan Turing for a whole half-hour and you haven’t complained about it _once_. Is this about Marius?”

Éponine sighed. If she was going to tell anyone the truth, it may as well be Grantaire.

“I wasn’t entirely honest with you,” she said.

“You often aren’t,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut it!”

Grantaire laughed as Éponine smacked him on the arm. Whether he was being an irritating asshole or not, she was going to get the truth out there.

“Marius didn’t... fall in love with someone else. Not exactly. Well, he did. Just. Like. It’s complicated. He is with someone else. Or he wants to be.”

“Éponine.”

“I’m not Marius’ soulmate.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up, before deepening into a frown. He reached out and took hold of Éponine’s wrist to look at the name.

“He’s my soulmate. I’m not his,” she said.

Grantaire kept looking at her tattoo, staying silent.

“You’re going to have to back up a bit for me here,” he eventually said.

“I met Marius and I soulbonded onto him. I got my tattoo, right? No doubt it was him. But when I found him again, he didn’t have my name on his wrist. He hadn’t soulbonded with me. And I just stood there like a total idiot as I watched him fucking soulbond with someone else.”

“Cosette,” Grantaire said.

“Yep.”

Grantaire went silent again. Éponine watched him, but his face was unreadable.

“So,” he said, slowly. “He’s your soulmate.”

“Yep.”

“But Cosette’s his.”

“Yep.”

“And he’s Cosette’s.”

“Bingo.”

“How is that-”

“Possible? It’s not. Believe me, I know.”

Éponine was getting fed up with all Grantaire’s stops and starts and wanted him to just _understand_ already. His staring off into the distance wasn’t helping either.

“Look, I’m a glitch, alright?” she said.

“A glitch.”

“Yeah, the system didn’t work with me. There’s nothing wrong with me, I checked. It just happened. I dunno why. I dunno if there even is a reason why. I’m an error, a glitch. A soulmate-less glitch.”

Éponine sighed overdramatically as Grantaire just sat there.

“Can you fix it?” he asked.

Éponine punched him in the arm as hard as she could.

“Do you think I’d just be fucking sitting here if I could fucking fix it?” she said, her voice raised.

“Okay,” Grantaire said, as calm as if Éponine hadn’t pretty much shouted in his ear.

“No one’s ever heard of it before. Wasn’t a problem before me. So, no cure.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire said.

“There we go,” Éponine said, sighing again. “He finally fucking gets it.”

Grantaire looked Éponine fully in the eyes then. He looked sad and confused all at once.

“Ép,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Fuck. That’s, that’s... oh god.”

He got that scrunch on his nose that he got when he couldn’t think of what he wanted to say. Éponine had always found it annoyingly endearing.

“Look, you don’t have to say anything, alright? I’ve been dealing with it. It’s complete crap, but nothing you can say will make it any better. So don’t try too hard.”

“Ép...” Grantaire said, sad eyes and all, moving his hand towards Éponine’s and squeezing it.

“No. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need your fucking pity, alright?”

Éponine swallowed as Grantaire stared at the floor. Scrunched nose. Éponine started to forget why she’d wanted him to know.

“You should tell Marius,” he said, after a moment.

“What fucking good would that do? There’s nothing _he_ can do about it.”

“Still. Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

“Nope.”

“I’d want to know. If it were me.”

Éponine turned to glare at him. Grantaire didn’t even blink. He claimed to be immune to her glares now. Damn him.

“Is that so,” Éponine deadpanned.

“Yeah.”

Éponine raised her eyebrow at him. He raised his back at her. That was enough of an invitation for Éponine to grab Grantaire’s wrist and pull his sleeve up.

“And what about your soulmate, huh?” she said. “Have you told him that the two of you fucking _bonded_? Or does he not have that same right?”

Grantaire instinctively tried to pull his wrist out of her grip, but she clung on tight. After years of fighting with her sister over dolls, Éponine was damn proud of her ability to hang on. Grantaire wasn’t going anywhere unless she let him.

“Let go of me, Ép,” Grantaire said, his voice low.

“Tell me, just who the hell is this Enjolras? I’m guessing he has no idea who you are, because you’ve been fucking hiding this from me for _months_.”

Grantaire seemed to deflate; he let his arm fall limp in Éponine’s grasp, slumped back into the sofa cushions, and sighed. His eyes were downcast as he swallowed.

“I didn’t know you’d seen it,” he said, his voice small.

Damn. Éponine hadn’t meant to do this. She’d been angry, yeah, and she’d wanted to lash out, but Grantaire looked _tiny_ and she hated that. She bit her lip, glare falling off her face. She let go of his wrist, which he quickly pulled back to himself, covering his tattoo with his sleeve again.

“I saw your tattoo when you were washing up a few weeks ago,” she said softly.

“Washing dishes is always a mistake,” he said. “Paper plates from now on.”

Éponine nearly let a ‘sorry’ fall out of her, but stopped it. No. She had nothing to be sorry about. Grantaire was the one who had kept this from her. Sure, she’d kept a secret from him too, but that didn’t matter. Grantaire should be happy about his.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

“Because you’re right,” he said. “He doesn’t know. And he’s going to keep not-knowing until the day we get to die.”

Éponine wouldn’t stand for this. She scowled at him heavily, clenching the top of the sofa to keep from hitting him again.

“Did you not hear what I just fucking told you?” she said.

Grantaire frowned at her as he noticed her white knuckles. Good, he was nervous. He may have been immune, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“You _have_ a soulmate,” she said. “I don’t. And you’re just gonna throw yours away. Do you know what I’d do to be in your position, huh? All I wanted was a soulmate, and you’ve fucking got one and you _don’t even care_.”

“It’s not that I don’t care-”

“Then what the fuck is your problem, huh? Because you look like an ungrateful dick to me.”

Good. He was cowering. Éponine smirked as stared at him intently, trying to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. He tried to look anywhere but at her, his eyes restlessly darting around the wall behind Éponine.

“I’m sorry, Ép,” he finally said. “I really am. But I’m not changing my mind. He deserves better than me.”

“That’s stupid,” she said.

“You haven’t met him,” he said, meeting her eyes.

“So? He’s your perfect match. So he deserves exactly what he’s getting.”

“No, he doesn’t. Not me. No one does.”

“You’re not making _any_ sense. Wise the hell up.”

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t. So _explain_.”

“What kind of soulmate would I be?” Grantaire said, gesturing at himself. “Look at me.”

He looked the same to Éponine as he always did. Green hoody, paint-stained jeans, beanie. Kinda tipsy. Look on his face like he was hating life. Same old, same old. This conversation was getting nowhere. Grantaire had the best thing in the world – he should’ve been out and adopting babies with his soulmate – but here he was, sitting on their sofa, looking pathetic.

“So what?” she said.

“Who’d want to be saddled with me?”

“Stop saying stupid shit.”

Grantaire sighed and leaned back on the sofa again, pulling a bottle with him. He shook his head and took a drink, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re not getting it,” he said.

“No,” Éponine said, her voice clipped. “ _You’re_ not getting it. We were in the same classes. You know the same shit that I do. Or weren’t you listening all those times I tried to teach you all this? It’s destiny. He’s your perfect partner. Your soulmate.”

Grantaire glanced briefly over at her, taking another drink just for something to do. Éponine knew he wanted her to stop, but she wouldn’t. It was for his own good.

“It’s not a game. It’s not like, ‘I want that one’. No. Let me spell it out for you: _you-don’t-get-to-choose_.”

Something seemed to shift in Grantaire. He sat up, turned to face her, putting his bottle down. His eyes brightened as he met Éponine’s gaze.

“Isn’t that the entire fucking problem?” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s our lives. If we don’t get to choose, who does? Who decides who your soulmate is?”

“It’s on your tattoo, dumbass. It’s not a ‘who’. It’s biology or some shit.”

“I’m nothing compared to him. The tattoo is wrong.”

“No,” Éponine said sternly. “The system works. I believe in it.”

“How can you still say that, after...”

Grantaire gestured at Éponine’s wrist, but his eyes widened as he stopped himself talking. He looked up to meet Éponine’s gaze and swallowed.

“Ép, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

Éponine shook her head to stop him, and smiled grimly.

“I believe in it because my parents are the two most fucked up people I’ve ever known. They’re the scum of the earth. I’d do them both in if I could. But they’re soulbonded, and I’ll never again see two people more suited for each other. They’re kinda the perfect couple.”

She released her grip on the sofa as she laughed bitterly.

“I’m not an idiot, alright?” she said. “I know _now_ it’s not flawless.” She gestured at her own tattoo. “I know people get shit partners sometimes. And no, I _don’t_ know how everything works. But I know there’s gotta be something in you that makes you perfect for your guy, and him for you. You gotta _try_. Because if you don’t, then what’s the fucking _point_ of it all?”

Grantaire had gone silent, and back to staring at the floor. Éponine sighed, and leaned back against the sofa cushions. It’d been a long day, and she just really wanted to go to bed. She was so tired that she barely heard Grantaire when he spoke again.

“I said, what if I’m a glitch too?”

“Don’t be a moron,” she said.

“I could be,” Grantaire said. “It’d make sense.”

“R. What’re the chances that we’re _both_ glitches?”

“Small, but, you know...”

“No. Fuck off. You’re not a glitch.”

“How do you know?”

“Because being a glitch is _my_ thing,” Éponine said. “Not yours. Find your own.”

Grantaire laughed loudly, as he relaxed a little. Éponine felt herself smiling in response. She held out her hand, which Grantaire took and squeezed. He moved to lean his head on her shoulder. He started tapping Éponine’s fingers with his free hand in some sort of sequence. Counting, maybe, or some rhythm. Éponine was used to it.

“Is this why you don’t like talking about soulmates?” Éponine asked. “Because you don’t think you’re...”

She felt Grantaire nod on her shoulder. Damn it. She should’ve fucking known. She’d known for years that he had a fucked up perspective of himself, but she’d just never made the connection between that and _this_. She told herself that there was no way she could’ve known. She’d never been good at people. She still didn’t fully understand how Grantaire’s brain was working; she didn’t see how any of it related to each other, but Grantaire did, and that was what mattered, she guessed.

“Haven’t you seen his tattoo, then?” Éponine asked.

“Nope. He has a wristband over it so _he_ hasn’t even seen it.”

“Why?”

“Because he thinks the system is fucked up so he’s refusing to look.”

Éponine frowned. That reason was even worse than Grantaire’s. At least Grantaire knew who his soulmate was.

“What an asshole,” Éponine said.

Grantaire snorted in response. Éponine sighed, and lifted herself off the sofa. Grantaire looked up at her, and Éponine frowned again. Grantaire still looked tiny, and Éponine hated it. He should always be a tower, not some fucking kicked puppy.

“I’m bored of all this misery,” Éponine said. “Let’s go get pissed.”

Grantaire smirked up at her. Bingo. Gone was the kicked puppy, and in with the snarky asshole. Much better.

-

Grantaire wondered how he’d gotten himself roped into this situation. So, no different to any other day, really.

Was he a criminal now? Not that it mattered. He was what he was; tacking another label onto the end of a long line of them couldn’t really make him any worse of a human being anymore.

It was just a little white lie.

They were in a cramped office in city hall. Grantaire could tell these places by smell alone; dust and humidity. Sometimes, sweat too. Today was their lucky day, in that regard.

Éponine dragged him by the hand towards the desk with more force than necessary, nearly launching him over it and into the woman sitting behind it. The woman in the suit glanced up at them, small fake smile instantly plastered on her face.

“Hello!” Éponine squealed.

Oh god. Grantaire hated Éponine’s fake high-pitched nasally voice – it always made him want to toss himself off the tallest building he could find. City hall was pretty tall.

“What can I do for you?” the woman deadpanned.

“Well, we’re here to apply for our benefits,” Éponine screeched. “Because, you see, we’re soulmates! We just found each other today! Isn’t it fabulous?”

Éponine clenched Grantaire’s hand and raised it into the air for the woman to see. Éponine stepped on his foot hard, reminding him to smile. Well, he figured he may as well go all out. He bared his teeth in the broadest grin he could manage.

“Oh yes, my love!” Grantaire said. “Thank goodness we found each other! Why, it’s like the sun is shining just for us!”

“It’s raining outside,” the woman said.

“Is it?” Grantaire said. “Oh, I cannot hear it. I cannot, I say! My passion for this beautiful young woman must have dulled all of my senses! All I see is her charming face!”

Éponine _beamed_. She actually looked ecstatic. Grantaire sometimes forgot that Éponine used to lie to people for a living. Yet, she stamped on Grantaire’s foot again. She’d told Grantaire to go for ‘realistic’; Grantaire’s head had nodded but his brain had said ‘fuck that’.

The woman seemed less than interested anyway, probably seeing couples day in day out. They probably could’ve cartwheeled in and she wouldn’t have blinked.

“Congratulations,” she said. “Names and wrists please.”

“We’re Marius Pontmercy and Éponine Jondrette,” Grantaire said, as both he and Éponine held out their wrists.

Éponine’s tattoo was still clear as anything. Grantaire had taken to splattering paint all over himself, especially on his arms, to obscure his tattoo as much as possible. He’d made sure the ‘E’ was clearly visible though.

“Painting accident, actually,” Grantaire said. “I’d been creating a mural in the park when we happened upon each other, and I’m afraid I became so elated that I quite forgot myself and ended up falling into my paints! Though I did not feel an ounce of hurt once I’d seen this amazing visage before me!”

“I’m so glad you weren’t hurt,” Éponine simpered, leaning in closer. She bit her lip and looked at him, her eyes gentle and warm.

Damn, she was good at this. He couldn’t _ever_ remember Éponine looking like that before. And, well.

“How could I be,” Grantaire said. “For when I saw you was the moment my life began. It’s not a life of pain, no. Every ache, every sore that I have ever felt has been healed, as I have been born anew into your life.”

Grantaire leaned down and kissed her hand. She didn’t even flinch.

“Photographic ID, please,” the woman said.

“Oh, shoot. Will my student card do?” Grantaire said.

“Anything is fine.”

It hadn’t been hard for Éponine to replace Marius’ picture from his student ID card with one of Grantaire. The woman only briefly glanced at it anyway, nodding.

“I’m so happy we found each other!” Éponine said, as the woman started on their claim forms. Éponine’s squeal was back. Oh, how Grantaire wanted to gag her. “Isn’t this the most perfect day ever?”

Instead of responding, Grantaire rested a hand on Éponine’s cheek, leaning in and kissing it softly. Grantaire felt her stiffen. Success.

When he pulled back though, he saw a smirk growing on her face. Fuck. Before Grantaire could move away from her, she swooped in and kissed him full on the mouth.

Oh god, that felt _so wrong_. Grantaire couldn’t shake the grimace off his face. He needed to wash his mouth out. Preferably with beer.

Éponine managed to wait until they’d left the office before bursting out laughing.

“You were asking for it, idiot,” she said.

“Believe me, I wasn’t,” Grantaire said, still feeling ill.

“So, are we gonna get married or what?”

“ _What?_ ”

Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks, making Éponine start laughing again.

“They throw cash at you if you get married,” she said. “Way more than these benefits.”

“Fuck off.”

Grantaire stormed on ahead, making Éponine run after him. Thankfully, Éponine dropped the subject, but she kept laughing at him regardless.

Grantaire didn’t think he’d heard the last of it. There was little in him that doubted that if Éponine wanted to get married, then he’d be getting married whether he liked it or not. It’d been a simple idea; it’d started when people had spotted Éponine’s soulmate tattoo, and Grantaire had hurriedly pretended to be Marius to save face. Éponine, of course, had taken the idea and run with it to fantasies of riches and fraud.

Éponine teased him all the way to the Corinthe. To his dismay, she followed him inside, rambling about the best ways to lie to people. It was only when he’d sat them both down at a table in the back with two beers that she noticed where they were.

“Huh. So this is where you have your pretentious meetings.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to argue, but decided he couldn’t be bothered.

“You know,” Éponine said. “When you talked about these people, I thought they’d look, I dunno... posher. They’re just a bunch of fucking hipsters.”

Grantaire snorted. Éponine was looking directly at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the first in his cardigan and the other in suspenders and a bowtie. She had a point.

“So which one is he then?” Éponine said, her voice inexplicably louder.

“Ssh! For fuck’s sake, keep your voice down,” Grantaire said.

Thankfully, the only person who’d noticed was Bahorel, who simply waved and went back to writing Sabine’s name onto his wrist with a biro. Éponine just smirked at Grantaire, cocking her head to the side as she waited. Grantaire sighed.

“Blonde in the red,” he muttered, gesturing towards the front of the room.

Éponine looked Enjolras up and down so many times that Grantaire started nervously drinking his beer. Why the hell was he nervous? None of this meant anything. He started internally berating himself, and then he mentally argued back that _of course he was nervous_ , until his brain was in complete chaos, while Éponine continued to sit obliviously in silence.

She leaned back in her seat and hummed quietly.

“He’s pretty hot,” she said.

Grantaire was silent for a moment. “...Hot?” he said, which came out sounding strangled.

“Yeah?”

“You just called Enjolras... ‘hot’.”

Éponine raised her eyebrows at him. “...Why do you look so offended? Am I not allowed to think he’s hot? This some kind of stupid possessive thing?”

“He’s not _hot_!” he said, spitting the last word.

“I think he is. If you don’t, _you’re_ the one who has issues.”

“It’s not that he’s not...” Grantaire gritted his teeth and made a choking sound. “He’s not _hot_ , he’s... he’s beautiful. It’s like he was sculpted by Michelangelo. Or by the gods themselves.”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“Normal people are hot. Idiot celebrities are hot. Enjolras, he’s... he shines. He-”

“Oh my god, would you just _shut up_ , you sound like a moron. He’s hot. End of.”

Grantaire stared at her. “No, he’s not. He looks like a _god._ He could’ve been painted by-”

“Okay, Christ, I get it, he’s ‘beautiful’. Happy now?”

Grantaire didn’t answer her, instead taking a long gulp of his drink. Of course, Enjolras chose that moment to glance over at Grantaire. Enjolras, asshole that he was, smiled and waved. In response, Grantaire choked. Éponine gleefully slapped him on the back; Grantaire had always suspected that she just loved getting to hit people.

When Grantaire recovered, he saw Enjolras frowning in concern. Grantaire forced himself to wave back and smile. Enjolras’ face lit up, grinning annoyingly adorably before going back to reading his notes. Damn him. Their entire conversation on the balcony came flooding back to Grantaire, and every conversation they’d had since. Grantaire’s stomach became an odd blend of happy and anxious, which just left him feeling nauseous.

Éponine was looking at him with a mild interest that Grantaire desperately wanted to ignore.

“He’s just a dude, you know that, right?” Éponine said. “He’s human.”

“Of course I know that!” Grantaire said.

His eyes widened, as if he’d surprised himself. He did know Enjolras was human; he honestly did. He just needed reminding sometimes. Grantaire would listen to Enjolras talk during the meetings, watching him seem to ascend as he spoke. Grantaire would argue with him, as it was easy to shout up at someone when he thought he couldn’t actually reach him. Then after the meeting was over, Enjolras would seem to come crashing back down to earth as he insisted on talking to Grantaire and then stumbling on half of his sentences. The sad fact of it was that Grantaire was even more in love with the second version of Enjolras than the first.

The first one was easy to venerate, sure. The one he could paint for days on end. The second Enjolras, though, was the one that made Grantaire want to tear Enjolras’ wristband off to see once and for all whether they had matching tattoos. The one that made him want to confess things that he couldn’t allow himself to.

Enjolras just made it so damn easy and difficult at the same time. He’d become, god forbid, _approachable_. It still made Grantaire’s mind reel sometimes. Enjolras seemed disturbingly interested in Grantaire’s life, asking him weirdly personal questions all the time. Grantaire suspected it was because Enjolras wasn’t sure how to start normal conversations, which shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was. The rest of the group had noticed, of course they had; they could all hang out without anyone worrying about tension anymore. JMB would give Grantaire thumbs-ups annoyingly consistently. Grantaire could’ve sworn he’d seen Courfeyrac do the same thing to Enjolras once, whatever that’d been about. Of course, the more relaxed it became between them, the more torn Grantaire was. In a way, it’d been easier to love Enjolras from afar. This had somehow become oddly personal.

That day’s meeting wasn’t the normal to-and-fro that they were all used to. They were all preparing for the upcoming protest at the weekend against the ‘robbing of the rights of the people’. The Corinthe was quickly becoming a flurry of activity around them, as people wrote speeches or made banners or whatever else. Grantaire tried to do as little as possible, but he usually got roped into helping someone with something or other.

Combeferre was calling it ‘The Big Push’. Grantaire was calling it ‘The Rise and Fall of Bellerophon’, just to piss Enjolras off. Which it did, once Enjolras looked up the story. Grantaire knew that none of them were the slightest bit arrogant, but that’d been an argument Grantaire had particularly enjoyed. Mainly because he’d never talked more bullshit before in his life.

Grantaire more often than that just called the upcoming day ‘Saturday’, because he kept claiming that he wasn’t going to go to the protest at all. They weren’t going to achieve anything; Grantaire believed that, but that wasn’t why he wasn’t going. He figured he’d just get in the way, so he didn’t try. Who invites a sceptic to an idealist party? Enjolras hadn’t been the only one to argue with him about it – everyone had – but Grantaire didn’t let any of it sway him. They wouldn’t succeed because people were shit and they just wouldn’t care, but damn Grantaire if he was going to pull the group down by being there. They had a better chance of flying without him.

Courfeyrac, despite how busy he was, quickly spotted the newcomer sitting with Grantaire. He and Combeferre bee-lined over to Éponine and attempted to gauge her opinion on the protest. Éponine unsurprisingly was unimpressed, ever the political apathetic, until Enjolras decided to join them. Grantaire felt oddly claustrophobic with the five of them packed around the small table in the back of the room.

Enjolras was launching enthusiastically into all of his best arguments, with Combeferre giving one-word prompts from next to him. Grantaire snorted as Combeferre had clearly decided to use this as a practice-run for the real thing. Enjolras though barely noticed him, instead excited to have someone new to convince. He was as compelling as always, of course. Enjolras was shining again; Grantaire made sure to bite his tongue and just let him speak.

Éponine, to her credit, could’ve gotten up and left anytime, but she stayed silent in her seat. Grantaire couldn’t read her expression at all; it nearly looked like she was actually _listening_.

“Some of these children who are abandoned aren’t given any sort of provisions,” Enjolras said. “The government choose to ignore them due to their perceived illegitimacy, either left destitute on the streets or trapped within a corrupt system-”

“I know,” Éponine said. “I’ve seen plenty of that.”

Grantaire frowned as Éponine’s voice had become oddly heavy. Enjolras took this as a sign that the group had a new ally, and looked delighted.

“My parents used to foster these kids,” Éponine continued. “Treated them like shit, they did. Some of the homeless ones are probably better off. Out of the system and all that.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. He’d never seen Éponine show any interest in the topic before, or anything even the slightest bit political, really.

Enjolras was nodding and grinning inappropriately. Combeferre was trying to look sombre enough for the both of them.

“So does that mean you’ll join us?” Courfeyrac asked, smiling encouragingly.

Éponine was silent for a moment, picking at the wood with her thumbnail. Grantaire was watching her just as curiously as the rest of them. She took a deep breath and then looked Courfeyrac in the eye.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.”

As Courfeyrac leaned over the table to try to give Éponine a hug, which she swatted off, Grantaire tried and failed to stop gaping. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac started to leave, before Éponine slammed a hand onto the table, startling them all.

“I wanna do a speech.”

Enjolras gave her a smile before running off to help Jehan, who’d been trying to get his attention for the past few minutes. Combeferre and Courfeyrac both sat back down opposite Éponine, glancing at each other.

“Well, the three of us were going to do the talks...” Combeferre said.

“Nah. I really wanna do one,” Éponine said. “You won’t regret it. Promise.”

Grantaire looked around him as he considered the possibility that he’d fallen into some sort of parallel dimension. Had the wallpaper always been that dark orange? Or did it used to be yellow? Combeferre and Courfeyrac meanwhile seemed to be talking to each other telepathically.

“Could you run it by us first?” Combeferre eventually asked.

“We’ve got nothing against you making a speech,” Courfeyrac said hurriedly. “We just wanna make sure it’s right before you do it.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Éponine said.

Combeferre seemed appeased, giving a smile before gently touching Courfeyrac’s arm to lead him back to work. The second they were gone, Grantaire verbally launched himself at Éponine.

“What the hell just happened? You don’t give a shit about any of this.”

Éponine seemed to be trying to avoid looking at him. Grantaire wasn’t going to give up though; it was too confusing. The Éponine he knew would’ve laughed at all this. The Éponine he knew was far too in love with the idea of soulmates to sign up for this. He said her name a few times to force her to pay attention to him, as she picked at the table again.

“Have I told you about Gav?” she asked. “Where he lives? Or about any of the kids my parents used to take in? About how I met Cosette?”

“Sure, you told me she soulbonded with-”

“No, how I _really_ met her.”

Grantaire thought she had, but he was obviously missing something. He leaned over the table to get Éponine to look him in the eye, which she did reluctantly.

“We were just kids,” she said. “About the time I met you, actually. My parents fostered her. It wasn’t just her; like, there were loads of kids, as far back as I can remember. We treated them all like shit. I mean, I thought they deserved it, they weren’t worth anything. Like rats, you know? And we didn’t have much food as it was, so never thought about giving them any. They must’ve eaten, somehow, none of them died of hunger or anything, but... We kinda just ignored them all the time. They were just there, you know? That, or me and Zelma made them do shit for us. Then they’d go and we’d get a new one in. It was all for the money, right, as everything was. They weren’t _human_. Not to us. It was fucked up, but we didn’t know it because our parents were our parents. _We_ were fucked up. The whole system was. Somebody should’ve been checking in on them, but no one gave a fuck because they were the runts. Non-soulmate kids. And now it turns out my baby brother has become a fucking stay-at-home dad for two of them and I still go around acting like none of it matters.”

“Ép, you can’t blame yourself for what happened to those kids,” Grantaire said.

“No,” Éponine said. “I don’t blame me. I blame them. My parents, the government, the system, all of them. I helped them. I fucking enabled it, R. I still am. I just didn’t get it.”

Grantaire didn’t know what to say, yet again. He’d found himself at a loss for words more in the past year than he had done in the whole rest of his life. He simply held out his hand, which Éponine quickly took.

“Will you help me write it? The speech?” she asked.

Grantaire usually would’ve made some snide remark. One even started to form on his tongue, before he forced his mouth shut. Instead, he just nodded. Éponine gave a small smile back, before picking at the table again.

Grantaire decided to wait. It took less than thirty seconds before Éponine grew uncomfortable, let go of Grantaire’s hand, and started mocking all the hipsters in the room. Back to normal.

Once Musichetta clocked Éponine’s familiar face, she was quick to run over and start talking to her. Grantaire left them to it as they both got startlingly into a discussion about benefits, with Éponine gleefully recounting the crime her and Grantaire had committed earlier that afternoon.

It took all of two minutes aimlessly walking around the room before Grantaire was accosted by Feuilly. Damn him.

“I’m sorry to ask, alright? It’s just I’ve been too busy to get anywhere with these banners, and you’re so good at art-”

“I’m not ‘good at art’. I _play_ at art.”

“Alright, because you’re so good at ‘playing at art’, I thought you’d be good at ‘playing’ at making banners,” Feuilly said, not missing a beat.

Grantaire sighed. He hated these people. He wanted to hate these people. Alright, he loved these people. He just wanted some peace to drink. Despite himself, he nodded, and instantly found himself being shoved unceremoniously towards a table covered with a mountain of blank sheets.

“Christ,” Grantaire said. “Have you done _any_?”

“No. But don’t let Enjolras figure that out. I told him half of them are at home.”

Grantaire laughed, grabbing a sheet and some Sharpies. Feuilly tossed the concept drawings at him, which Grantaire started to mimic. Feuilly threw himself into the same task with such ferocity that Grantaire started to understand how Feuilly managed to maintain so many jobs.

“Work snowing you under, then?” Grantaire asked. “You’d have usually been on this.”

“Not work, actually,” Feuilly said. He tapped on his own wrist, winking at Grantaire.

The soulmate tattoo. Here it went again. The look on Feuilly’s face made Grantaire feel obliged to acknowledge it, as much as he didn’t want to.

“Found her then? Or him. Or them. Or whatever.”

“No, not yet. You see-”

Oh god. Grantaire didn’t get why people always insisted on talking about their soulmates with him. Did he have a sign on his head saying ‘I want to know all your problems (particularly if they’re about soulbonding xoxo)’? He blamed the society. Maybe if they fought for animal rights, people would spend their time talking to him about puppies or sharks. That’d be the day.

Feuilly carried on, either oblivious to Grantaire’s pain or doing it for that very reason – Grantaire didn’t put either option past him. They each continued to try to make as many banners as possible as Feuilly rambled on. Grantaire thought maybe Feuilly was racing him. Game on.

“Basically, all I had to go on was that they’re Chinese and spent time in that homeless shelter. So I’ve been trying to find them whenever I could, y’know, calling detective agencies and accessing directories of people in the city and looking for anyone Chinese. That wasn’t getting me far though, so on my breaks at work, I’ve been learning how to write in Mandarin.”

“Christ, Feuilly, leave something for the rest of us to do,” Grantaire said.

Feuilly smirked. “So their name is ‘Bai’. I don’t know yet what gender they are; the name doesn’t really tell me. And of course, only one name doesn’t help much. So I’ve been going back to that shelter as often as I can – I haven’t been doing a whole lot of sleeping, hence the banner issue – and just asking around. No luck. I wondered then if maybe they’d immigrated here. So I went to the Border Agency and they had a record of someone with that name – it took a _lot_ of talking and bribing to get them to say anything, of course, and it turns out they’ve been deported.”

“Oh. Fuck. Why?”

Feuilly seemed unnervingly unperturbed, carrying on as if he hadn’t just told Grantaire that he had no way of getting to his soulmate. “I don’t really know. I know that the Prime Minister had been pitching a fit over all the theft going on in the city, so I remember him calling for deportations. Because he’s a racist tool on top of everything else, which makes perfect sense, because why just be an asshole when you can be the shit-stain of the country?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, I don’t know if that was _why_ Bai was deported; could’ve been for anything. They could actually be a criminal for all I know. But I don’t think it really matters.”

“Well, no, not if they’re back in China.”

“That’s not what I mean. I just don’t care what they’ve done. They’re my soulmate. I want to meet them, so I _am_ going to find them.”

Grantaire stopped drawing the word ‘revolution’ in block letters to stare at Feuilly.

“How?” he asked.

“I’m going to China,” Feuilly said.

“You’re going to China,” Grantaire deadpanned.

“Yep.”

“Feuilly, what the fuck?”

Feuilly hurriedly looked at the banners. “What’s wrong with them?”

“There’s nothing wrong with them; there’s something wrong with _you_ ,” Grantaire said.

“Why?”

“You’re going all the way to China just to _meet_ your soulmate?”

“Yes,” Feuilly said, as if this was normal.

“What if they’re scum? Isn’t part of this whole protest that the soulmate system is fucked up? But you’re just going to go to China because your wrist tells you to?”

Feuilly stared at him. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. If I meet them and it doesn’t work out, yes, I’ll come home. The soulbonding system is messed up, but that’s the government’s fault. Bai is still my ideal match, according to this.” He pointed at his wrist again. “I have to at least meet them.”

With that, Feuilly considered the argument won and carried on working. Grantaire just watched him instead.

“I’ve booked a week off work,” Feuilly continued. “I leave after the protest.”

“Feuilly,” Grantaire said. “You do realise that China is a _country_ , right?”

“Of course I do.”

“You expect to just _go_ to China and find your soulmate in a _week_ , with nothing more than one name?”

Feuilly stopped, met Grantaire’s eye, and grinned. Grantaire simply stared back in confusion.

“It’s destiny, right?” Feuilly said. “So I’m bound to succeed.”

Feuilly’s grin turned into a smirk, as he turned back to his banners. He must’ve achieved a substantial lead on their banner race, as Grantaire just sat stupefied. It took a good few minutes before his brain kicked back into gear.

“I’ll never understand you idealists,” Grantaire said. “Your brains are fucked up.”

Feuilly, damn him, just thought Grantaire was being funny and laughed. That, or he revelled in Grantaire’s confusion. Grantaire had never been able to get a handle on whether Feuilly was actually nice or an asshole. Either way, Feuilly was damn fast at making banners and Grantaire stopped even trying to catch up.

Of course, Grantaire belatedly realised his race with Feuilly made it seem like he was being productive. So whenever he noticed Enjolras looking over, Grantaire would lean back and take a long swig of his drink, or start idly wandering the room. Naturally.

-

In the days that followed, Éponine busied herself with becoming a pain in Grantaire’s ass. She quizzed him on the soulbonding stories of every single person in the society; from the likes of the leader’s hipster best friends to the guy who wandered in there by accident one evening, for whom Grantaire had invented the kind of story that made Éponine want to slit her own throat before it was even over.

Leading up to ‘The Big Push’ or ‘The Middle Finger’ or whatever it was, they were all in the Corinthe every evening helping out, so Éponine had plenty of opportunities to piss Grantaire off without end. Despite it all, she still loved hearing the stories. She’d considered asking the people themselves, but this had seemed like a more fun idea. Besides, they were all still idealists, and Éponine doubted she would actually get on with any of them. She couldn’t tell any of them apart anyway.

She didn’t usually talk to anyone, spending the meetings and writing down stuff for her speech with Grantaire and then scribbling it out again. For once, he was actually helping, and not just ‘helping’. He’d read over what she’d done and make suggestions, making it flow better, or finding stupid holes in her points. Sometimes he’d even just take the paper from her, ask her what she was trying to say, and write it for her. Grantaire had always been better at words and people than her – if she’d tried to write it on her own, she probably would’ve read like some pre-teen and ended up offending everyone. She still wanted it to sound like her, so they’d play around with wording and phrases over bottles of beer. It was still Grantaire though, so half of his suggestions were less than helpful, but it kept the whole job from becoming too intense. It was hard to get stressed when they were both constantly on the edge of getting tipsy anyway, with Grantaire saying things like ‘Tell them that soulbonding is like Santa; that a peasant dude wrote a random name on their kid’s wrist when they were sleeping as a joke, and that idiot started screaming about it at the market until everyone ended up in a frenzy’.

It felt good to throw herself into something again. It was like at school – most of the time, Éponine couldn’t be bothered to do anything, but when soulmates were involved, she’d work for hours. She knew it meant that Grantaire now had to work harder too, but she wasn’t fussed. If it bothered him, he didn’t show it anyway. She knew he wanted to be there when she needed him. He only left her when someone else dragged him off – usually the caffienated kid who liked waving banners in his face – or when his soulmate came along. This was when Grantaire decided to either go into love-sick puppy mode or to become as obnoxious as possible. Which, Éponine thought, were pretty much the same thing. But the leader dude usually ended up annoying Éponine more than Grantaire did.

“He seems like a jerk to me,” Éponine said.

“He’s just under a lot of stress,” Grantaire said.

Éponine rolled her eyes. She’d seen enough of Grantaire’s relationship with his soulmate over the past few days to try getting involved. They didn’t make any sense to her – they argued and Grantaire did his best impression of an asshole and it got all heated, and then ten minutes later, they’d be sitting at some table and chatting on their own. Those times, they’d gotten the blushing teenager routine down to an art, and did the whole sneaky glances and soft smiles thing annoyingly well. They looked so cute that Éponine wanted to throw things at them. When Éponine tried to tell Grantaire that his soulmate obviously liked him back, Grantaire just got sad and told her she was seeing it wrong. Then, the next day, they’d start again. It was stupid. There’d been an especially confusing incident the day before, something to do with dominoes, which Éponine tried not to think about.

As the week went on, Éponine was glad that she hadn’t bothered to get to know anyone. The Corinthe became a hub of stress: scowls and wide-eyed caffeine highs, frantic running about and nervous tics, and people were starting to snap at each other. None of that was new to Éponine – she _had_ been in the university library once, after all – but she was glad for her and Grantaire’s little corner of the room. Especially when two of the skinny hipsters started arguing about the size of flags, and had tried to get the rest of the room involved in the debate. Éponine had just laughed; Grantaire had declared himself uninterested after he’d been told that ‘I need a big flag’ wasn’t a euphemism.

It was Friday night, and everyone had gotten themselves into huge fucking messes. Arguments were springing up about the stupidest things – things that made the flag incident seem almost intelligent – and people were demanding to know where they’d put their banners or flyers or whatever; the ones they were holding in their hands at the time. They’d all become morons. Grantaire, naturally, was loving the chaos. Éponine just wanted them all to shut up.

One of them was shouting about what the plan for the next day. After Éponine was told what time she needed to be on the platform, she stopped paying attention. She didn’t need directions of where to go – she knew the streets of Paris better than the people who’d mapped them. She mostly tried to drown out the shouts to concentrate, but huffed out in irritation when Grantaire started joining in from beside her.

“I’m stopping you right there,” Grantaire said.

“What’s the problem?” asked the one with glasses. “You can go with Jehan instead to hand out flyers at the Luxembourg, if you’d prefer.”

“To hand out flyers, I’d need to actually get out of bed. Which I’m not planning on doing.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now, sorry. So, Bahorel-”

“You’re not coming?” Grantaire’s soulmate said.

Grantaire leaned back in his seat and took a drink, giving a smirk. Éponine noticed everyone either bracing themselves or hurriedly carrying on with their preparations.

“Why would I? Got better entertainment on TV,” Grantaire said.

Éponine rolled her eyes and went to ignore them again, before she saw Grantaire’s soulmate’s expression. The guy was halfway across the room from them, but it didn’t matter; it felt like he was right in their faces. Livid didn’t even cover it. For the first time, Éponine saw what Grantaire meant when she compared the guy to a god. Éponine had never once been inclined to use the word ‘wrath’ in her life before, but that was the only word that came into her head. She felt Grantaire stiffen beside her as the guy’s scowl morphed from human to immortal, his eyes blazing and his mouth thinned into a line.

“Does this not matter to you? Do you think this is this a joke?” the man said.

Éponine heard Grantaire swallow heavily beside her. She thought about reaching out to his hand, but figured he wouldn’t need it. It was Grantaire, after all. He was used to this. To prove Éponine’s point, Grantaire took a long gulp of his drink again.

“If it _is_ a joke, then you all need some new material,” Grantaire said.

“Grantaire, this is serious.”

“Just because it’s serious to you, doesn’t mean it’s serious to me.”

“Any sane person could see how important this is.”

“Sanity; that’s the problem, isn’t it? Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some pressing business to be getting back to.”

“What business?” the man asked, lifting his arms up in exasperation. “Have you done _anything_ to help us? Or do you just sit there, night after night, and drink?”

Grantaire’s grip on his bottle tightened. Okay, now Éponine was getting worried. Usually this stuff bounced off Grantaire, but now his knuckles were white.

“Drinking is an activity, Enjolras, but I wouldn’t expect you to know about that.”

“How does that help the cause?”

“I never claimed it did. But it does tend to occupy my time.”

The man seemed to be splitting at the seams; Éponine could nearly hear the rips. She knew that Grantaire could tell, but doubted that he was able to do anything about it. Éponine couldn’t look at them anymore, instead turning her stare onto her speech in front of her, the words nothing to her but a mess of scribbles.

“Do you care about _anything_?” the man asked. “Have you _ever_ cared? Are you even capable of it?”

The silence was suffocating. Éponine gripped her pen in both of her hands. She keenly felt the absence of people of everyone running about and being idiots. It was too quiet, too stiff, too painful.

The sound of Grantaire putting his bottle onto the table became deafening, like someone vacuuming when you had a hangover. Then it went silent again. Éponine couldn’t read Grantaire’s face. She could never really read him though, and that was the problem. He was biting his lip, and his eyes were dead. No shine, nothing. He looked tiny, yet again. That was enough to make Éponine furious.

Éponine wanted to punch the guy. Call him out. Do something. But Grantaire must have been telepathic, because he held an arm out under the table to still her. Even when Grantaire looked like that, he knew what Éponine was thinking, but Éponine had no idea what _he_ was going through. Éponine felt like crap because of it, which just made her even madder.

Grantaire took a deep breath. “I am capable of more things in heaven and earth, Enjolras, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Hamlet. Fucking Hamlet. Éponine had had to listen to Grantaire quote that play so many damn times that she could nearly recite it herself.

With that, Grantaire stood up. As Éponine watched him, she noticed the other people in the room doing the same. Grantaire swallowed, picking up his bag.

“I think I will get my useless blend of drunkenness, scepticism and apathy out of your way.”

The look on the guy’s face had completely changed. He was still frowning, but it wasn’t in fury this time, it was in confusion. He seemed at a complete loss, and to be watching Grantaire carefully.

“Grantaire,” the man said. “Take this seriously.”

Grantaire had reached the door, but turned back to face him. His eyes shone again, but it was with something unrecognisable. It was not an expression that Éponine had ever seen on him before, nor did she ever want to again. He laughed, but it was a single choke which came out sounding twisted.

“’Seriously’?” he asked. “How could I?”

Grantaire stared down at the floor for a moment and took a deep breath, putting his hand on the door. His eyes still shone, but his expression was dark, with his mouth contorted into some sort of bitter smirk.

“You said it yourself, Enjolras,” he said. “I’m insane.”

And in that moment, he looked it. His eyes had darkened, and his knuckles had turned white where they gripped the door. He grinned widely, but instead of looking happy, it looked savage. Even animalistic.

Then, he completely changed. Grantaire became human again, his eyes losing all their fire. His grip on the door slackened, and his hand fell to his side. He took a slow breath, and looked the man in the eyes. He swallowed heavily, before opening his mouth to speak, but shutting it again. He didn’t just look small; he looked like he was broken.

“I am wild,” he said.

Then he tried to smirk, but it barely made it onto his face. With that, he walked out the door.

-

At least he wasn’t blackout drunk. Éponine was actually relieved when she got home and saw him lying on his back on their floor. She knew by now how much alcohol he could handle; he was about two bottles short of that. He was idly scratching at the label of an empty bottle that he had propped up on his stomach. He noticed her, but didn’t say anything, so neither did she. Éponine dumped her bag and lay down beside him.

Grantaire sighed, and stared at the ceiling. The light bulb wasn’t even bright enough to be blinding. The ceiling fan’s dull churn was the only sound. Their cream-coloured ceiling was dirty; Éponine had never noticed that before. Cobwebs and some dull orange stains that Éponine suspected were either alcohol or pasta sauce. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know how they’d gotten up there.

“Trust you to quote Shakespeare at a time like that,” Éponine said.

Grantaire snorted. Éponine looked at him; there was a small smile there. Success.

“You actually really fucking believe in it all, don’t you?” Éponine said. “You believe in everything they’re fighting for.”

Grantaire didn’t answer for a moment. Éponine had to keep glancing at him to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep.

“Nope,” he said, somehow turning the word into two syllables. “I just believe in him.”

“Bullshit.”

“You think?”

Éponine didn’t know whether that meant she was right or wrong. She supposed it didn’t matter; he was drunk anyway. Or on the way to being drunk. His speech was surprisingly clear, so Éponine wondered how tipsy he actually was.

“Tell me what you actually think, R,” she said. “Don’t just say whatever the hell you think I do or don’t wanna hear. Do you actually think they’re gonna fail or not? Do you wanna help them? What do you _really_ think?”

“I don’t have opinions, Ép,” he said.

“Of course you fucking have opinions. Everyone has opinions. Even stupid ones.”

Grantaire laughed bitterly again, like in the Corinthe.

“Just like I told him. I’m ins-”

“You’re insane, yeah, I heard you the first time,” Éponine said.

He was smirking again when she looked over. Éponine thought she’d built walls around herself; Grantaire had a fucking fortress sometimes.

“You’re impossible,” she said.

“I’ve heard that before,” he said.

Éponine rolled over onto her side to face him. He briefly glanced at her, before turning back to his bottle.

“You wanna help them,” Éponine said. “You wanna go tomorrow.”

“No I don’t,” he said.

“Yeah, you do. You know too much to not be interested, R.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were too fucking good at helping write my speech.”

Grantaire grunted, which was a sound Éponine couldn’t translate at all. When Gavroche used to do it, he’d been telling her to fuck off. If Grantaire was saying that to her, he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, but Éponine suspected it meant something different. With Grantaire, it always did.

“I don’t think it’s even that,” Éponine continued. “I don’t think you wanna just help them. I think you wanna help people.”

“No, I hate mankind, remember?” Grantaire said.

“That’s not what I said. I said you wanna help _people_. Actual people.”

Grantaire grunted again. Éponine chose to believe that this meant she was right.

“I think you’ve got the bug,” Éponine said, teasingly. “I reckon these hipster activists have gotten in your head and all you wanna do is save people.”

“Fuck off. I hate people.”

“No, R,” Éponine said. “I’m your best friend. You gotta give me a bit more credit than that.”

Grantaire looked at her then. Instead of looking nineteen, he looked about five years old. Éponine’s instincts as an older sister kicked in, making her want to just hold him. He had the same look on his face that Azelma used to get when she was little and didn’t understand why there wasn’t any dinner that night. Éponine hated it. Yet now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop.

“You care about people so fucking much that it’s actually painful for me to look at you sometimes,” Éponine said. “You get that look in your eyes, the sad puppy face, when all you wanna do is make everything better but you don’t know how. You just take all the shit that life throws at you, but when it happens to someone else, it kills you. I know what you say, but you fucking _love_ people. I see it, and you know I see it.”

Grantaire met her eyes and smiled grimly. He lifted himself up, so Éponine followed him. The way he moved was completely steady; Éponine wondered if he was even tipsy.

“You’re wrong,” Grantaire said. “I’d have to have convictions to love anyone, or to even care about anything. Didn’t you hear? I don’t have any.”

Grantaire started moving towards his room then, his head bowed and shoulders hunched.

“Come to the protest tomorrow,” Éponine said.

Grantaire didn’t say anything, or even look back at her. He just walked into his bedroom and shut the door, taking his empty bottle with him.

-

Éponine had to admit that she was impressed. She’d never been to a protest before, so she hadn’t known what to expect, but the square was packed with people. She was sitting on a chair on the platform alongside a bunch of the hipsters, clutching her speech in her hand, and looking out at everyone in front of her. The one with glasses was talking to them all through a microphone, but Éponine wasn’t paying any attention. There were just _so many people_.

Éponine had never been shy. Now, she understood why someone would be.

The amazing thing was that everyone was actually listening. The people at the front were nodding along, making all the right responses, and some had even made their own banners and picket signs. She hadn’t realised how much interest this society had gotten. It wasn’t just students here; it was people from all over the city.

She was vaguely aware that she was making her speech unreadable by clutching it too hard, but she’d become oddly restless. She knew it by heart anyway. Or she had done. She felt like she’d suddenly forgotten everything.

Just as she was about to panic, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She tried to ignore it, but it irriated her as it kept going.

To her surprise, she had messages from both Gavroche and Azelma, as well as some of the Patron-Minette, all asking the same thing: ‘what the fuck are you doing on that stage?’ She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised that they were all there; very little happened in Paris without Gavroche or the Patron-Minette knowing about it, and she guessed Azelma was part of that group now. She ignored them all.

The only message she replied to was one from Grantaire, which came through just as she was putting her phone away.

 

_From: R_

_Enter stage right._

 

She leaned round hipsters #2 and #3 to see the crowd at the right of the stage, and there Grantaire was. He blew kisses to her overdramatically, which made her snort. She flipped her middle finger up at him in response, to which he threw his hand upon his chest as if he’d been wounded. Good, he wasn’t moping anymore.

Éponine knew it was stupid and needy that Grantaire being there actually made her feel better, but she didn’t care. She felt her old confidence returning as she smirked at him.

“Oh, he came,” Grantaire’s soulmate said to Éponine.

Éponine had resented being told to sit next to him, but earlier he’d insisted on reading her speech again, so it had just happened. She was still furious with him about the previous night, and the desire to punch him had barely waned in the slightest.

“Did you bring him with you?” he asked.

Éponine emphasised her sigh. Couldn’t have the guy thinking she could stand him.

“Nope. Came on his own accord. And don’t talk to me,” she said.

“Are you, um, mad at me?” he asked.

She gave him her best glare. He winced. Excellent.

“Of course I’m fucking mad at you. We all are. Or do you not remember the shit you pulled last night? Just so you know, R’s been working his ass off all week, helping me write my speech, and whoever else needed anything, so you don’t know shit.”

Éponine had never really had any sort of feelings towards the people in the society before last night. Yet, after Grantaire had left, she’d decided that she really liked them all after they’d completely laid into the guy for being out of order. The guy had just continued looking confused for the rest of the night, which had just pissed her off even more.

“I... didn’t mean to offend anyone,” the guy said. “Really. Not him. Um, especially not him. I was just... I don’t know.”

“Do I look simple to you?” Éponine said, with the hint of a growl.

The guy had the intelligence to shake his head.

“While we’re talking about dick moves of yours,” Éponine said. “That bit in your speech about you not taking off your stupid ass wristband to repress yourself like the people or whatever-”

“I wear it because I refuse to look at the name on there so I-”

“I really couldn’t give a shit, and don’t fucking interrupt me.”

The guy shut up. Good, he was learning. He was also biting his lip. Nervous, even better.

“But yeah, that. Take that bit out,” she said.

The guy went back to frowning at her in confusion. Éponine wondered if that was his default facial expression.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it’s the most selfish fucking thing I’ve ever heard and it just makes you look like an asshole. Which, you know, you actually are, but showing all these people that fact probably wouldn’t help us.”

The guy went silent, and looked over at Grantaire. Grantaire seemed to be making a conscious effort to not look over at them, and was watching the dude speaking with an intensity that was usually reserved for painting. Éponine considered the conversation over, and tried to unravel her speech to give it a last read-through. She instantly regretted scrunching it up so badly.

“Why is it selfish?” the guy said.

Éponine breathed out a huff of frustration. What a fucking moron.

“Because, asswipe,” she said. “You not looking at your tattoo doesn’t actually help anyone a jot, which means it’s symbolic, and symbolism is just fucking pointless. A metaphor doesn’t put food in kids’ mouths, does it? So all you’re doing with this stupid charade is denying your soulmate the chance to try being with you, and fucking up their life as well as your own.”

The guy kept staring at Grantaire, sitting completely still and not saying a word. Éponine sighed loudly again and went back to reading her speech. It was less than thirty seconds before the guy shot out of his seat, and dashed behind the platform, mumbling something about needing the bathroom. Éponine rolled her eyes.

Éponine took a deep breath as the guy with glasses called her up to do her speech. Or two deep breaths. Or three, or four. She held onto the microphone like a lifeline.

She was vaguely aware of the leader guy returning to his seat behind her. She looked over at Grantaire who was smiling at her encouragingly. The crowd were all watching her in silence. Oh god, she’d forgotten what her opening line was supposed to be. She took one more deep breath. Here went nothing.

“We’ve heard a lot here today about what’s wrong with soulbonding,” Éponine began. “But I wanna say that I believe in it. At the centre of it, it’s gorgeous. Destiny, love, life. But these words have been stolen from us. Soulbonding hasn’t just been fucked over, _we’ve_ been fucked over.”

Éponine scanned her eyes over the crowd. Grantaire had told her to do that; he said it helped her connect with her audience or some shit. It gave her a complete high as she noticed how intently everyone was listening to her; she felt like someone had given her an adrenaline shot or some speed or something.

Of course her eyes landed on the Patron-Minette; they were the ones wearing black in summer. They stood out like a first-time shoplifter in an off-licence. They were quite far from the stage, but Éponine could see that Montparnasse had his arm around Azelma. Azelma, unsurprisingly, was wearing black now too.

“We were born with our soulmate already built into us; we’ve got as much control over soulbonding as we do our skin colour. We’re destined to be with people that maybe we think we shouldn’t. Maybe _other_ people think we shouldn’t be with them. I used to say that people should mind their own fucking business, until someone I knew soulbonded, and I got kinda pissed off about it. But I shouldn’t’ve. It wasn’t their fault.”

Éponine smiled, though she doubted Azelma would be able to see it. She knew that Azelma would hear it though. Well, she’d better hear it. That was as close to an apology as Éponine was ever going to get.

Gavroche had somehow managed to sneak right to the front of the crowd. He was grinning wildly, and saluted at her. She noticed his bulging pockets; walking through that crowd must’ve been a goldmine for him. Grantaire noticed Gavroche nearby, moving to stand next to him, the two doing some deliberately obnoxious fist-bump.

“Basically, we don’t get a choice about who we bond with; it’s nature. Or it should’ve been. But the government and the higher-ups and whoever have taken this natural thing and made it unnatural. With it, they control all of us, even if you don’t know it. Even if you think your life is great, and you got that happy ending they yap on about.”

The crowd were starting to get noisy, talking to each other and some even shouting out, but most making approving sounds to what she said. She figured this was a good thing.

“You’ve already heard a lot from these other guys about how they’re taking our rights away from us. They privilege some, the ones who find their soulmates, and splash them with so many perks that we get distracted from those who don’t get a happy ending. Or even those who don’t have a happy beginning. There are hundreds of people in Paris alone who have been cast out by the system, for some shit or another: they didn’t meet their soulmate, they got together with someone else, or worse, they were born out of a non-soulbonded couple. These people are totally abandoned, but they can’t take care of themselves, because employers don’t wanna hire them and schools don’t wanna teach them. Kids are shoved into the foster system, where they’re used for benefits or even abused. There are some kids who’d rather live on the streets themselves, where they’ll freeze or starve. We overlook them because the system teaches us that they don’t matter. They’re not human, they’re rats. But all it takes is one proper look to know that’s not true. _We’re_ the rats. _The government_ are the rats. Those people are just the victims.”

The cheering and the shouting were now getting a lot louder. Gavroche was completely loving it; Éponine knew he’d like that part. She even heard some of the hipsters behind her joining in, which gave her a weird sort of pride.

“Who we bond with doesn’t matter. But what matters is what we do with it. And that’s the radical bit – the bit that the politicians and the higher ups don’t want you to think about. If we meet our soulmate and realise that they’re totally wrong for us, then what? Have we gotta be unhappy and be with them anyway? What if we fall in love with someone else and they fall in love with us? Should we again be unhappy and ignore them, just because we’re not soulbonded? What if we _can’t_ be with our soulmate, for whatever reason? Maybe they died, maybe they’re far away, maybe they’re in jail, whatever. Have we then gotta be alone forever? The dudes in suits would tell you that the answer to all these questions is ‘yes’, but you now know better. The answer is ‘no’. We’ve got a choice.”

This was the end of her scripted speech. Some of the hipsters started setting up for another talk, or the leading of a chant, or something. Éponine stood her ground though. She saw Grantaire look at her in confusion, but ignored him.

“We’re made to believe that the system is perfect, and that’s why deviating from it would be so bad. This person is your perfect partner, and yeah, they often are. You’ve heard today about all the domestic violence that happens within soulbonded couples, and murders, and all that shit. Just because it’s natural doesn’t make it right. We blame the higher-ups, the people manipulating it, and it _is_ their fault. But soulbonding itself is broken. These people have built a system on top of a broken foundation and covered the cracks. Innocent people get bonded to rapists, because the system can’t change with us – the person we bond with at birth is the only person we ever get, despite whether we or they completely change, for better or worse. Whatever it was that made us perfect for each other then may not be there anymore. So yeah, I believe in soulmates, but I also believe in choice.”

Éponine took inhaled deeply, and exhaled, gripping the microphone tightly.

“The system _isn’t_ perfect; it’s never been perfect, and it’s never gonna be. And I’m proof of that. Because I’m a glitch.”

She held up her tattooed wrist.

“My name is Éponine Thénardier, and in November, I soulbonded onto Marius Pontmercy. In January, Marius Pontmercy met _his_ soulmate. Who wasn’t me.”

The crowd became eerily quiet. Éponine turned her gaze towards the sky, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone she knew. She didn’t want to know what she’d see there.

“Forever, I’ll have his name on my wrist. Forever, I’ll not have a soulmate. So what am I supposed to do, huh? Am I doomed to be alone? What would _they_ do with me? I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m gonna do what I want, and they can’t stop me. My life is not theirs; it’s my own. And so is yours.”

What had been silence a moment before erupted into deafening noise, as people screamed and shouted an incoherent mass of sound and movement. Grantaire was gaping at her, whereas Gavroche threw a wink in her direction and launched himself into the fray. One of the hipsters grabbed Éponine’s wrist. She pulled it back and punched him.

“I know Marius,” he said, rubbing his cheek. “He’s my roommate.”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about Marius,” Éponine said.

The guy laughed, and Éponine grinned as she realised she meant it. The guy then took this as an invitation to hug her, and Éponine pushed him away. He just found it funny. Éponine cursed him in her own head.

Wait. Éponine stilled and the guy stopped laughing.

Had that been a gunshot?

The effect was instantaneous. What had before been passionate shouts became outright hysteria. Éponine could barely think through the screams, and people were shoving each other in a frenzy to try to escape.

Someone was shouting into the microphone for everyone to calm down, but he was drowned out. Someone else was telling them all to stick together. Someone else said that the police were probably on their way, and they should scatter. Someone else dove straight into the crowd. Someone else was crying. Éponine couldn’t recognise anyone, couldn’t think, couldn’t see.

All she kept thinking was, _Gav, Zelma, Gav, Zelma._

She hurriedly dialled both their numbers, but neither picked up. She dialled all of the Patron-Minette, one at a time. Then she repeated. She kept going until Montparnasse finally picked up on the third cycle.

“Where the fuck is she?” she shouted.

“Fuck, Ponine, she’s here. Give me some credit,” he said.

Éponine breathed out, but still couldn’t steady herself. She heard a scuffle on the phone.

“Ponine?” Azelma said, voice rough.

“Zelma, thank fuck.”

“Parnasse got us out. He’s always been good at that. Where are you?”

“I’m still here. I can’t get hold of Gav.”

Azelma was silent for a moment, then swore. Éponine heard her talking to Montparnasse, but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Parnasse says we can’t go back in. But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

“No,” Éponine said. “Stay safe, alright? I’ll deal with it.”

Azelma grumbled unhappily, but her actual words were lost in the noise of the crowd.

“I love you,” Éponine said.

“I love you too. Don’t hurt yourself,” Azelma replied, before hanging up.

Éponine had barely time to think before someone was shouting in her face. It took her a moment to recognise him as Grantaire’s soulmate.

“Where’s Grantaire?” he asked.

“I, fuck, I don’t know,” she said.

“I need him!” he said. “He’s-he’s my soulmate.”

The guy’s voice broke on the last word. He was completely white, and his lip was bleeding from biting it too hard. Éponine didn’t know how to comfort him, so she left him.

She tried calling Grantaire. No answer. Gavroche, again. No answer.

Éponine had no idea what to do, so she launched herself into the crowd.

-

Grantaire tried to ignore the pain all over his body as he pushed his way through the people. Searching for a child in a sea of panicking adults was just as hard as he thought it’d be. Grantaire hoped the crowd would thin out soon, and that Gavroche somehow had made it out unhurt. Though, with the amount of elbows to the face Grantaire had gotten, his lack of hope was motivating him to move fast.

He was trying to remain calm, and to not worry about anyone else, but it was becoming harder. His focus on Gavroche was the only thing keeping him from breaking down. He’d seen JMB running for the side-lines, their arms interlocked, as soon as the gun had gone off. Those were the only ones he knew about though.

Grantaire was dimly aware of police sirens in the distance, and someone shouting through a megaphone who was definitely not someone from the society. It was ridiculously difficult to avoid injury when he was constantly looking down to spot Gavroche. If he only had a black eye in the morning, he’d be a lucky man.

He had no idea where the crowd was taking him, but he knew better than to try to go against it. The sirens seemed to be getting louder, so either they were headed towards them, or more were coming.

People were still screaming, but it wasn’t deafening anymore; either they were calming down or his ears were going out. Grantaire just thanked any and all the gods that he hadn’t heard any more gunshots since that first one. Maybe the gun had been knocked out of the person’s hand, and was on the ground somewhere. Or something had happened to the shooter. Grantaire didn’t know. He just hoped everyone was going to make it out of this alive.

-

The last person Éponine expected to collide with was her ‘soulmate’. His hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat as he got shoved around from all sides by the mob. It’d taken them a moment to recognise each other; well, Éponine doubted that Marius had ever really known who she was to begin with. But he certainly knew who she was now.

“You soulbonded with me?” he asked.

“We don’t have time for this, moron!” she shouted.

She glanced at his scrawny arms and thin build, then sighed. He was going to get crushed. She locked her elbow with his and started dragging him back towards the platform.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked.

“Courf – I was here to support him. Can you get me back to him?”

“I’ve got no fucking clue who that is.”

She thankfully hadn’t made it too far away yet; she was going against the mob, which was stupidly dangerous. She showed Marius how to hold his arms to avoid getting knocked down, and breathed a sigh of relief as they made it back. She gave Marius a foot up to climb onto the platform before climbing up herself. Marius immediately launched himself at one of them, who Éponine guessed was ‘Courf’. Half of the hipsters were still standing there.

“What the fuck are you all doing?” she asked.

“Enjolras is gone, and we thought this was the safest place to wait it out,” one of them said.

“Fucking hell,” Éponine said. “Who has a fucking car?”

When someone raised their hand, Éponine asked them where it was: hallelujah, just around the corner. Éponine started describing an alleyway that would take the car-owner directly to it, one that she’d run down many times before.

“You’re gonna squeeze as many people in the car as you can, the law be damned. Then drive slowly, alright, and get the fuck out of here. And don’t run anyone over.”

“How do you know what to do?” one said.

“Because shit always happens to me.”

“That wasn’t really an answer.”

“This isn’t really the time for a heartfelt chat, asshole.”

She showed them all how to lock their elbows together so they wouldn’t get separated. If Éponine was honest, she’d have said she had no fucking clue what she was doing. The only thing she had was that she’d always been good in a crisis, because she’d been stuck in the middle of heists gone wrong and all that crap since she’d been a kid. She just knew the elbow trick because she used to do it with her siblings when they were little and caught up the hysteria caused by their parents’ ‘grander’ schemes.

As soon as she’d set them off, she found the platform had instantly become repopulated with people demanding to know how to get out of there safely. When Éponine told them to fuck off, they started becoming desperate, so Éponine just started spouting off all she knew about the alleyways around this square, and nearby buildings they could hide out in. Before she knew it, she was telling previously law-abiding people how to steal cars.

“I’m not a fucking tourist information desk!” she said to the next group.

“We need you,” they said.

That was all Éponine heard, before she started rounding up as many people as possible and trying her hardest to direct them all to safety.

-

Grantaire felt bile rise in his throat as he finally spotted Gavroche. Grantaire had headed towards an opening in the crowd, and found that the police were clearing that area. Grantaire was caught behind some people, but could just see them. They had riot helmets and shields, and were pushing people out of the way to part them. At the front of them was Gavroche.

“You filth can't scare me!” Gavroche shouted. “Up the revolution! Rights for everybody!”

Gavroche then started singing a vulgar song that Grantaire had forgotten he’d taught him, and groaned. He knew hanging out with Gavroche while drunk would bite him in the ass eventually.

Bahorel then seemed to appear out of nowhere, and started taunting the police by Gavroche’s side.

“Down with the government! Down with soulbonding!” he shouted.

Of course, a mob of people to start chanting alongside him.

Fuck. He’d known it. The police were now getting ready to shoot rubber bullets.

Gavroche was still right there at the front, singing and fearless as ever. And as tiny as ever.

Grantaire heard someone shouting his name, but didn’t have time to look back. He shoved his way through the last of the people with as much force as he could, dashing towards Gavroche. He saw an officer lining up a gun to shoot at the crowd, and Grantaire focussed as hard as he could to keep his vision in check, as the panic started overcoming him.

Grantaire dashed in front of Gavroche, the boy barely having time to protest before Grantaire was shielding him.

He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out as the rubber bullets collided with his chest.

“You okay?” Grantaire asked, turning to face Gavroche.

He found himself involuntarily slipping to sit on the ground. Fuck. It hurt to talk. It hurt to move. It hurt to do much of anything.

“Yup. Same old. You?” Gavroche said casually.

Grantaire laughed, but instantly regretted it. He wanted to stand up, but didn’t want to try.

“Grantaire?” someone shouted.

Grantaire knew that voice. He craned his neck, and saw Enjolras running over to him. Enjolras dropped down onto his knees in front of Grantaire, his eyes wide and frantic, and his cheek red from a cut under his eye. Enjolras instantly started accosting Grantaire, inspecting his face, his arms, trying to find what was broken. Enjolras so close that Grantaire could’ve breathed him in. If his chest wasn’t hurting so badly, that was. Enjolras started talking so fast that Grantaire could barely understand what he was saying.

“Are you okay? You’ve been shot! They shot you! Oh god, oh damn, we need an ambulance. Don’t die, oh help, fuck, don’t die, please don’t die. What do I do?”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire said. “Enjolras, calm down!”

“They shot you!”

“With rubber bullets,” Grantaire said, wincing as he tried to move. “As in, not real.”

“Rubber bullets,” Enjolras repeated slowly, stilling his hand on Grantaire’s cheek.

“Yes, they weren’t _actually_ going to shoot me. They’re riot guns.”

“I knew that,” Enjolras said, taking a deep breath. “Of course I knew that. Are you okay? You don’t look okay. Is anything broken?”

“I’m sure I’m okay,” Grantaire said uncertainly.

“What do you think you were you doing?” Enjolras asked, looking anything but appeased.

Grantaire nodded at Gavroche. “They were going to shoot at him.”

Enjolras went silent, sitting and staring at Grantaire with his mouth slightly open. Enjolras was still so close. And still touching his cheek. So fucking close.

Fuck, was Enjolras leaning forward? Grantaire swallowed heavily, again regretting it when the pain shot through him. Grantaire winced, which caused Enjolras to move back. Enjolras instantly jumped up and ran over to the police, who were still firing into the crowd.

“What the hell are you doing? You fired your gun at a kid!”

The officer actually lowered his gun. Enjolras started ranting loudly, and Grantaire smirked as he watched him. Bahorel, who’d been shot by a round of rubber bullets too, was up there with him. It seemed like the bullets had only spurned him on.

“Well, this is cute and all...” Gavroche said.

“You’re not fucking leaving, I came out here to find you,” Grantaire said, reaching out to grab his arm. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“What if I don’t wanna go?” Gavroche said.

“Then you’re an idiot and I’m dragging you out.”

“You and what body?” Gavroche said, prodding Grantaire’s chest.

“You fucker,” Grantaire said, wincing.

Grantaire started trying to pull himself up, but it hurt like hell. He wasn’t trying for long though before he felt someone gripping his arm and pulling him up. Grantaire leaned his full weight onto Enjolras as he caught his breath.

“Do you need me to carry you?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire stood for a minute and breathed slowly, before he moved off Enjolras. Thank god, he could actually stand on his own.

“No. I need you to carry him,” he said, pointing at Gavroche.

Enjolras didn’t even blink before kneeling down and telling Gavroche to get onto his shoulders. Gavroche protested, until Grantaire slapped him on the back of the head – well, attempted to. It ended up being more of a stroke, which Gavroche thought was much worse. Gavroche reluctantly climbed on, and Enjolras stood to his full height again. Grantaire laughed as it looked ridiculous; Gavroche was nearly a teenager, and wobbled up there unsteadily, resting his arms on top of Enjolras’ head to stay in place.

Enjolras put an arm around Grantaire’s waist to steady him and help him walk. Grantaire resisted doing the same, because he’d never touched Enjolras before. Even with the pain, it still seemed unthinkable, somehow. It was Enjolras. Being touched by Grantaire would probably ruin him. But Grantaire’s pain had other ideas, and it only took a few steps before he relented.

Thankfully, the police were doing a good job at moving the mob. Since the crowd had been heading towards the police, it was much easier to get back to the platform now than it would’ve been ten minutes earlier. There were still people dashing around it, but it wasn’t nearly as dense as it had been. People were still shouting from all sides, yet now the shouts had become more abusive as they were directed towards the police. The sounds of the riot guns going off still made Grantaire start every time.

It was a long and slow walk. People were still bumping into them from all sides, Enjolras having to work hard to keep both Gavroche and Grantaire balanced. Gavroche had somehow managed to grab a picket sign from someone, and was using it to knock people out of the way who got too close. Grantaire had to admit that it was surprisingly effective.

As soon as they reached the platform, Gavroche climbed down Enjolras’ back to jump onto it, whistling as he went. Éponine, now the sole occupant of the platform, dashed over to him smacked him over the head, and started ranting at him.

“Hey, I made a good bob, didn’t I?” Gavroche said, gesturing at his pockets.

Éponine didn’t take to this response well.

Enjolras helped Grantaire slowly move up the steps, then lowering him onto a chair. Grantaire breathed deeply, leaning his elbows onto his knees, while looking down at his hands. He felt Enjolras sit down on the chair beside him, knocking his knee with Grantaire’s. Grantaire grinned but didn’t look up.

“R, you fucker,” Éponine said, smacking Grantaire around the head as well.

“Ouch!” Grantaire said, cradling the back of head and looking up at her.

Éponine scowled down at him, with her arms crossed. Gavroche started singing another song about the police behind her, which was offensive in about five different ways.

“He was shot by rubber bullets!” Enjolras said.

“ _Rubber_ bullets. Grow a pair,” she growled.

“I went to find your fucking brother,” Grantaire said.

Éponine paused. “You scared the shit out of me. Don’t do it again.”

She was still glaring at him, but she reached down and squeezed his hand. Grantaire smiled at her, and her frown wavered slightly.

“I’ll go get the hipsters to drive you to the hospital,” she said.

She then grabbed Gavroche by arm, locked elbows with him, and headed through the slowly thinning crowd towards a nearby alleyway. Gavroche responded by singing even louder.

“Who are the hipsters?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire just smirked and shook his head. Enjolras looked confused but smiled anyway.

“Thanks,” Grantaire said. “For helping me.”

Grantaire felt his cheeks turn pink. He hated himself.

Enjolras responded by lifting up his hand and grinning. Grantaire simply stared at him. Enjolras stared back. After a moment, Grantaire bemusedly waved at him, despite them sitting right next to each other.

Enjolras laughed at Grantaire, who just became even more confused. To Grantaire’s alarm, Enjolras then lunged for Grantaire’s wrist. Despite the pain, Grantaire tried to move his arm out of Enjolras’ reach, and yanked so hard that he nearly toppled off his chair. Enjolras, who’d been battling with Grantaire a moment earlier, instantly switched to be supporting him.

“What _the fuck_ are you doing?” Grantaire asked, his face heating up.

“Show me your wrist,” Enjolras said.

“No!”

“Please.”

“Fuck off.”

“Dammit, Grantaire, I’m trying to tell you something!”

“I doubt you need my _wrist_ for that.”

Enjolras sighed, looking at Grantaire as if he was causing him great pain, as Grantaire raised his eyebrow at him.

“It was supposed to be romantic, dammit,” Enjolras said.

“It was supposed to be _what?_ ” Grantaire asked. There was no fucking way he’d heard that right.

Enjolras didn’t answer him, instead raising his hand in the air again.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “Please stop waving at me, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m-I’m not…” Enjolras said, sighing. “Grantaire, just look.”

He had perfect hands. They looked soft and firm. Of course they were perfect. But aside from making Grantaire want to hold it, he didn’t know what this was supposed to achieve. Grantaire met Enjolras’ eyes again, saw him growing impatient, so looked at the hand again. It was only after a moment that his eyes wandered down to Enjolras’ wrist. Grantaire’s mouth dropped open.

“You…” Grantaire said. “You took off your wristband.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said.

Enjolras was smiling at him. No, grinning. No, beaming. There wasn’t any word that Grantaire could call it to do it justice. Enjolras’s mouth was wide and happy, with his eyes glistening and his cheeks _dimpling_. Grantaire had never seen him shine brighter.

Grantaire didn’t have time to react before his felt Enjolras’ mouth on his. Before Grantaire registered what was going on, Enjolras was gone again, Grantaire still feeling the phantom pressure on his lips.

Grantaire still sat completely still, staring wide-eyed at Enjolras. Enjolras took Grantaire’s arm again, Grantaire this time being too stunned to resist. He watched dumbly as Enjolras pulled up Grantaire’s sleeve, seeing his own name etched onto the skin there. And fuck, Enjolras got that stupidly majestic grin on his face again. Grantaire couldn’t process this.

“Look,” Enjolras said, holding his own wrist next to Grantaire’s.

There. The two wrists were lined up, one saying ‘Enjolras’, and the other, ‘Grantaire’. Unmistakable. Destined.

Grantaire didn’t know whether he wanted a drink or to lie down. Or some morphine.

“Is this not okay?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, who was frowning. Fuck, he was nervous. Grantaire berated himself for just sitting there dumbly – Enjolras thought Grantaire didn’t want him. Damn it.

“Fuck, no, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, struggling to think of what to say. “I’ve liked you before I even knew you were…” Grantaire gestured at his wrist. “So, god, it’s really not like that. I’m just… stunned, is all. I... I thought maybe I was a glitch too. Like Éponine.”

Enjolras went from looking upset, to delighted, then confused again within the space of ten seconds.

“Why would you think that?” Enjolras asked.

“Because, you’re you. And I’m me. It doesn’t make sense,” Grantaire said.

“It makes perfect sense to me,” Enjolras said. “I’ve, uh, liked you for months too.”

“Fuck off,” Grantaire said.

“No. Wasn’t it obvious? I, um, asked you all those questions all the time. I kept trying to get you on your own. Courf said I was the worst flirt he’d ever seen.”

Grantaire shook his head. He wanted to laugh. This was ridiculous.

“Let’s say I believe you. Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“I didn’t know how. I’m not… used to this. And, you know, I didn’t want to look at my tattoo. For the cause. I didn’t want to ask you to be with me if you were bonded with someone else, or hadn’t met your soulmate yet. I thought I was doing a good thing. But Éponine, uh, told me I was being stupid.”

“She’ll do that,” Grantaire said, snorting.

Grantaire took Enjolras’ wrist gently in his hand, ghosting his finger over his own name on Enjolras’ skin. Grantaire smiled, but he wanted to do more. Laugh. Sing. Anything. Yet he just shook his head.

“I don’t deserve you,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras, of all things, _laughed_. Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him. Grantaire usually would’ve assumed he was being mocked, but this was Enjolras, so it seemed unlikely.

“I don’t deserve _you_ ,” Enjolras said.

“What.”

“Seriously.”

“You’re far too fond of that word.”

“I mean it!” Enjolras protested. “You’re so talented at so many things, and you can just, you know, _talk_ to people. I can’t do that. And you’re so clever. All I can do is make speeches and all this society stuff and that’s it.”

Grantaire gaped at him. “You’re off your fucking head.”

“Maybe,” Enjolras said, grinning brightly.

And, damn. He looked so fucking good. It wouldn’t take much too just… No.

“Enjolras, you don’t have to do this. Remember what today was about. You’ve got a choice. I’m… I’m not a good match for you.”

“So you say,” Enjolras said.

“No. I’m argumentative, cynical, depressed… I’m a complete fucking mess.”

“And I’m socially awkward.”

“Enjolras, I’m being serious.”

“Finally.”

Enjolras just grinned at him, his eyes shining bright and not taking their gaze off Grantaire. Well, that was all the permission Grantaire needed.

Grantaire leaned forward, stroking his fingers over the nape of Enjolras’ neck, before leaning forward and pressing his lips against Enjolras’. It took barely a second for Enjolras to start kissing him back, gripping onto Grantaire’s forearm. Grantaire started to get lost in it, before he was harshly reminded where they were.

A new batch of police sirens blasted in his ears, as people shouted and sang revolutionary chants even louder, with riot guns blasting repeatedly in the distance. He was sitting on a platform, kissing his soulmate for the first time, in the middle of a protest-turned-riot. And his body was in complete agony.

“I’m not going to marry you,” Enjolras said.

“Of all the things I expected you to say, I didn’t predict that,” Grantaire said, laughing.

Enjolras was still smiling, but he seemed to be repressing it, like he was making a conscious effort to look sombre. Grantaire found this hilarious, but tried to keep quiet.

“Not unless the law changes,” Enjolras said. “Not until everyone has equal rights.”

Enjolras was biting his lip again. Grantaire thought it was hysterical that Enjolras was actually nervous about this.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he said.

“Seriously?” Enjolras asked.

“Yeah.”

Enjolras smiled happily, and kissed Grantaire again.

“Besides,” Grantaire said, when they broke apart. “The authorities think my name’s Marius Pontmercy and that I’m Éponine’s soulmate anyway.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, frowning.

As if on cue, Éponine was beside them in a car, leaning out of the passenger seat window. Musichetta was smiling at them from the driver’s seat, with a banged up Bossuet covering a bloody nose with a handkerchief next to her but giving them a thumbs-up.

“Hey, morons, get in, unless you wanna got shot by the filth again,” Éponine said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grantaire said to Enjolras, before moving to stand up again.

Joly launched himself out of the car like a shot, fussing over Grantaire and getting him into the car as gently as possible. All the gentleness was pointless though when it turned out the car wasn’t big enough for the seven of them, with Gavroche voluntarily piling himself into the car boot. Four of them still had to squeeze into the backseat, which became even more uncomfortable when Joly insisted on doing his own check-up on Grantaire before they even got to the hospital.

To say that the car journey was the worst of Grantaire’s whole life – and Grantaire had had enough bad car journeys to vow never to get a driver’s licence – would be an understatement. Chetta alternated between smirking victoriously at Grantaire through the rear view mirror, with that damn eyebrow of hers, and nearly running over unsuspecting rioters. Bossuet’s battered nose was getting blood over both himself and the car, as he wondered aloud whether the police would call it a crime or a favour if they drove over half the crowd. Gavroche was still singing obscene songs that Grantaire definitely hadn’t heard before. Éponine was loudly complaining about having been forced to help everyone and actually be an asset to the general public. Joly kept prodding Grantaire all over and asking if it hurt, which of course it did. Enjolras though was itching to throw himself back into the riot despite everyone’s protests, and only stilled when Grantaire reached over Joly to hold his hand, after which Enjolras _visibly blushed_ and Grantaire just wanted to give up on life.

The whole situation was fucked up. Grantaire was fucked up. Enjolras was fucked up. Everyone in the damn car was fucked up. He’d known all along that he shouldn’t go to the protest. Yet, somehow, Grantaire found it difficult to regret showing up.

-

Éponine wasn’t built for office work. Papers and computers and _people_ , blah blah blah. You were expected to be on time for everything, which was just unreasonable. You were expected to dress all pretentiously and jumped up, and Éponine had never bothered to steal something that would deliberately make her look frigid. Even worse, you were expected to obey the law. Which, well, had never been Éponine’s strong point.

If someone had told Éponine that she’d be working in an office after she left university, she would’ve laughed. If someone had told Éponine that she’d be _running_ an office, she would’ve laughed even harder. If someone had said that she would’ve started the business herself, Éponine would’ve ignored them because they’d have obviously lost their mind. Yet here she was.

She hadn’t graduated and she was horrendously proud of that fact; she’d dropped out after a year from boredom, after teasing her professors by getting top marks on a paper. Of course, this being Éponine, she hadn’t had a plan, but she’d managed to keep hold of her benefits, since the government hadn’t linked the pieces of paper claiming ‘Jondrette’ to the actual ‘Thénardier’. She’d jumped between sleeping on Gavroche’s and Grantaire’s floors, but Grantaire’s place had started to become crowded with the near-constant presence of Enjolras, who Éponine still struggled to be around without insulting. Gavroche had somehow managed to become a homeowner by committing a series of fraud scams, and was somehow managing to raise two children alone, reading parenting books whenever he wasn’t out scouring the streets for victims. Éponine admired him, but it got far too weird for Éponine’s liking when Gavroche started trying to enforce discipline and complained about inflation. Éponine knew she needed her own digs. So she needed money. Since Gavroche refused to share his secrets with her, the bastard.

Éponine quickly learnt that jobs sucked. She could ace a job interview, no sweat, but actually holding onto a job was _impossible_ and Éponine didn’t know how people did it. It was so _tedious_. It was just that when someone told Éponine something that she wasn’t allowed to do, she would usually be doing it within twenty minutes. It was instinct; she couldn’t help it.

It didn’t help that her personal life had started to suck. It hadn’t taken long for all of Paris to hear about what she was. Some people were freaked out by it; so naturally, they tried to beat it out her. Éponine though was her mother’s daughter, and dating Montparnasse during her teenage years had had its perks too when it came to self-defence. Soon, people got the idea. Didn’t stop them from staring or talking though. Éponine always just stared back, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t as annoying as hell anyway.

It was also annoying that ‘The Resistance’ (as all the revolutionary types were calling themselves), especially Enjolras’ army of hipsters, had started to see her as somewhat of an icon. She knew that nothing good would come from helping all those people at the riot. People would ask for her opinion on every little political thing that happened, and she was asked to speak at every left-wing function. Éponine became so bored by the whole process that she started giving the most inane speeches she possibly could, and everyone still ended up calling her ‘profound’. Grantaire thought it was hysterical. Éponine thought that the entire country was filled with morons.

So. Éponine decided to just own it, as she’d done at the protest. She’d started a support organisation for outcasts of the system; for anyone who couldn’t be with their soulmate for any reason, since people came to her all the time for help anyway. She’d either try to help the person be with their soulmate so they could play into the system, or she’d try to provide for the ‘hopeless buggers’ like herself. She found it mad that people listened to her, but she liked it. It was the dealing with, and god forbid, _hiring_ people that she struggled with. But as the boss, she could wear what she wanted and was always late. As she liked it.

All of Grantaire’s hipster friends had jumped at the chance to donate to the organisation, which got her started. It’d only been running for a year before Éponine found the place financially stable. Éponine didn’t know much about business, but she knew that was kind of ridiculous. It turned out that there were hundreds of rich sods all over France who secretly wanted to stick their middle fingers up at the government for whatever reason and, well, Éponine wasn’t going to complain. So she was able to provide a house for the wretches who really had nothing, help people get their soulbonding benefits, or just get some sort of income. She usually helped them lie better in job applications to pretend they had both a soulmate _and_ soulbonded parents. Éponine knew it was illegal, but that’d never been an issue before. Until Enjolras saved the world and got rights for everyone and all that shit, there wasn’t much she could so about it.

She was determined to keep it from being a political thing, much to Enjolras’ frustration: she thought it would be pretty fucking stupid to just throw herself in the government’s faces like that and just end up in prison, which Éponine had successfully evaded her entire life thus far and planned to continue doing, thank you very much. Which Enjolras of course didn’t understand, since he was in and out of prison every other week.

The boxer hipster and the flowery one were always at Éponine’s office. They seemed to sort of worship her, which she found really bizarre. The two soulbonded ones were always campaigning for her. Grantaire’s art buddy kept asking for funding to go to China, in exchange for volunteering in her office. Enjolras kept applying to work there but Éponine always rejected him. Musichetta, who Éponine actually liked, ended up becoming her business partner without Éponine really knowing how it happened. Yet she was the brains behind it all, really; Éponine thought most of her staff would’ve quit without Musichetta keeping everyone sane. Musichetta rarely let her boyfriends anywhere near the office, saying it was safer that way. Azelma wanted to help, but Éponine found herself bailing Azelma out of prison more than anything else, and Éponine bitterly wondered how this was ‘helping’. Grantaire pretended to be useless, loafing around her desk and generally antagonising her as usual, but she knew that he personally took care of every poor sod that came through the door, not leaving them until he’d managed to make them smile. Éponine hadn’t expected anything less.

It was inevitable that Marius Pontmercy would walk through the door someday. He’d actually been one of her first clients, back before she had employees or anything. Éponine had watched him through the window, seeing him dither outside the front door for thirty fucking minutes, before she’d gotten bored and dragged him in. She’d guessed what he wanted immediately, but he’d stood red-faced and stammered for so long that Éponine started trying to hunt Cosette down online before he even said anything. She had them reunited within six days, and married within six days and five hours. Éponine had been right from the beginning; Cosette was Cinderella. Éponine just never would’ve realised that she’d be the one to bring Cosette to her Prince Charming. The worst part of it was that Cosette had been _happy_ to see her. Éponine still hated her.

The public thought it was ridiculous that the world’s only glitch was helping soulmates find each other. Éponine found it bonkers too. Grantaire had called her ‘Cupid’ until Éponine had punched him in the face. She didn’t want to be a matchmaker, and never would be one. Soulbonding was still fucked up and always would be. But that was reality; there was no point pretending it wasn’t. It had made her think that she had no future, yet Éponine now knew that wasn’t true. The day she’d found out she was a glitch, her life hadn’t ended. She’d simply realised that her life had a different direction. Her destiny wasn’t to be somebody’s soulmate. Her destiny was soulbonding itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Written when the soulmate tattoo au hype was at its peak and only just now being published. Oops. No really; this fic has already nearly reached its first birthday.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://simplestardust.tumblr.com/) (or [here](http://atruesatellite.tumblr.com/) for nothing but idiotic French revolutionaries), and the post for the fic is [here](http://atruesatellite.tumblr.com/post/116837880154/glitch-enjolras-grantaire-eponine-soulbonding).


End file.
